Resurfacing
by NewTwilightFan
Summary: Bella is anxious to finally meet the object of her desire: handsome, wealthy, enigmatic Edward Cullen. After almost three years of talking and teasing via e-mail, text and phone calls, is she truly ready for something real?
1. Chapter 1

It's hard to remain unobtrusive. Every few moments the clerk looks in my direction. She's wondering why I am still sitting here in the lobby. Alone.

You're late.

As the minutes tick by, I become more and more anxious. Heels click on the slick marble flooring. They pass by me and exit with a whir of outside noise and a friendly wish from the door man.

Moments later more guests enter. The wheels of their luggage tap out a cheerful rhythm of rumbles and chirps across the expanse of the lobby. I shift again, pretending to read but getting lost in the white space between characters. You're not coming. I feel it. I don't know why you wouldn't. I thought you were as excited as me. Excited. . . Nervous, anxious and scared. I should feel ashamed at my desperation, wanting you the way I do. But I don't.

I am sitting in the glitzy lobby of a hotel I could never afford, and I'm beginning to wonder why. I am here, dressed like a call girl, buffed and polished and waxed like a prize car at an exhibition, forgotten in a corner. Left without a buyer. I'm beginning to feel embarrassed. Maybe our connection was just a construction of my own mind. I didn't tell anyone I was coming. Stupid, I know. How do I know I can trust you? The news is always busy with stories of silly, desperate girls like me. I can probably rule you out as a threat to my safety since you aren't even here. But my pride? My self esteem? Destroyed. . . and now I need to escape.

If only you would walk through that door. . . I would feel fine if you were here. I think.

My nerves get the best of me, and I abandon my attempts at reading. I breathe slowly and deeply as I approach the counter. Confidence. That is the feeling I try to project. The attendant is surprised when she hangs up the phone and sees me standing here. She hides it well, but the curiosity is still evident in her glance as she surreptitiously scans my figure. Something doesn't measure up in her eyes. Perhaps she can tell my pearls are fake. Or maybe she can see through my dress and knows that I am wearing affordable lingerie from Victoria's Secret, not something exquisite and expensive like La Perla. Most of the guests here must buy hundred-dollar underwear without blinking.

"And how can I help you?" Her tone is cloying and artificially submissive. I really don't like her.

"I'm afraid I missed my date, and I forgot my cell phone at home. He was supposed to meet me here at 7:30. Has Edward Cullen checked in this evening?"

"Well, I'm really not supposed to reveal guest information without authorization. We have some very high profile guests here. I'm sure you understand my situation, right?"

I can feel my pulse and blood pressure begin to rise. She is mocking me now. Her eyes are hard, dismissive and satisfied with my obvious embarrassment. I lift my chin haughtily. Confident, I think.

"Oh, I understand completely. However, I also know that if one of your guests were unable to contact their date because you refused to do a tiny little search in your computer there, they would be extremely pissed off."

She almost rolls her eyes at me. She obviously doesn't want to make a scene or run the risk of offending a guest. She doesn't call my bluff. Instead she nods and turns to her computer console.

"Of course. This will just take a moment and then you'll be able to continue with your evening plans."

Her dismissal is barely masked by her forced civility. She takes her time, probably enjoying my discomfort. I'm seething on the inside, battling with the tiny muscles in my face to maintain the façade. On the inside I'm dying a little more each second. I bet she can tell and is just dragging it out more to get back at me for my audacity. The bitch.

"I am so sorry. No guest by that name has. . ."

She is cut off mid-sentence by a frantic voice. I was so pre-occupied with my efforts at self control that I never heard the man enter the lobby.

"Excuse me, please. I'm so sorry to interrupt but I was supposed to meet somebody, and I've been trying to reach her for the past 2 hours, can you tell me if. . ."

"Edward?" I gasp.

You look just like your picture, but it is so strange to see movement and expression on your face. And your voice, no longer distorted by phone lines and distance, it twists my insides into knots with its warmth.

You turn to me in shock, catching your breath. Your eyes. . . they capture and hold me, and I can't move. I feel myself blushing.

"Bella? Wow, I didn't recognize you. When did you cut your hair? I mean, it looks amazing, I just wasn't expecting. . . and I'm so late. I can't believe you waited. I mean, I tried to call you, but I couldn't. . ."

"I know, I'm so sorry. I realized I forgot my phone, but I was already half way here, and I couldn't call because, well, I can never remember numbers. I'm completely lost without my phone. Are you okay?"

You seem to register that we are still here at the counter, and the snarky clerk is watching our exchange. She seems annoyed that I wasn't stood up after all.

"So, would you like to check in now, Mr. Cullen?"

She's flirting with you. I am both jealous and amused. An odd mix. My stomach is empty and the last hour and a half of waiting has left me jittery and a bit nauseated.

"Actually, that would be perfect. We've already missed our show, so maybe we'll just grab some drinks at the bar."

The bar here is a classy place. All dark wood and mirrors and dimly lit sconces. I passed it on my way in. It was busy even at that early hour. It's probably packed to the rafters now, but I don't object. I examine you with casual glances, pretending to look around the opulent lobby while you speak to the clerk. Traffic is picking up as more and more tourists and business people return from their day's activities. Two other clerks are helping other customers. They look friendly. Where were they while I was waiting for you? I would have rather spoken to the cheery blonde. She looks like a sweetheart.

I am piecing together a complete picture of you. Your lean figure, the casual way you lean toward the person you are speaking to, the dash of gray at your temples, the 5 o'clock shadow that darkens your jaw. I want to feel it scratching across my skin.

Your eyes dart my way and catch me looking. You smile. . . I feel like melting. I have lived for your smile for years. And now, feeling it directed at me, not a camera. . . I am falling so hard.

I forget my earlier embarrassment and despair as your left hand slips across the space between us and grasps mine softly. You continue listening to the clerk as she explains the check out procedures and points out the many amenities on a glossy diagram of the hotel. Your thumb is tracing electric lines on my skin. I feel so hot, breathless, anticipating those fingers moving across other parts of my body.

Your lip twitches. You're trying not to smile. You know exactly what you're doing to me.

She's running out of things to say, and the tension in your shoulders betrays your impatience. You release my hand to gather up your key card and credit card, the diagram and a small suitcase that you had set down on the floor when you arrived. I didn't notice it before.

Your eyes are burning with a combination of amusement and anticipation as you address me. "I have to drop this off in my room and make a call before we head out. Would you like to walk up with me?"

You sneaky devil. Let's not call this what it is: a clandestine hook-up. Let's pretend we are long-time friends getting together for a few drinks to catch up on old times. Our audience can sense the sexual tension in the air. She suspects the truth, but she doesn't really know anything. You obviously want to keep it that way.

"That's sounds fine. Maybe I can grab a glass of water, too. I'm parched."

You tilt your head in the direction of the elevators, and I fall into step beside you. I match my stride to yours, thankful that I chose to wear heels. Even with a four-inch boost, the top of my head only reaches your eyes. The floor reflects our images, side by side. I'm beginning to get nervous. I don't really know what to say.

My keyboard is not threatening. Your words on the screen have always conformed to my imagination, and I was able to maintain control. Now, I feel the fluttering of panic around my mind. I try to stamp it out, but the feeling flits back and forth, a moth struggling to find its way through the closed window.

The elevator lets out a cheerful ding when it reaches the lobby. The door opens, and your hand guides me by the elbow into the plush confines. The inside is dark stained walnut and deep rose velvet. The door slides shut, and we are facing a mirror. My cheeks are stained with a blush that is half mortified embarrassment and half nerves.

Your eyes lock with my in the reflection. They are dilated, almost totally black, and you are breathing carefully. Your lips curl into a lopsided smile that makes me shiver and burn simultaneously. My knees wobble as the elevator ascends. I am panting and trying to hide it, too aroused by the anticipation to remember what I have to be embarrassed about.

You turn to face me as the elevator creeps to a stop and the doors glide open. I can breathe again. The cooler air jolts me out of my haze of lust. You are the quintessential gentleman, holding one arm against the open door as I exit. I stop in the center of the hallway, and hesitate. Left or right?

"This way." Your breath is warm and moist against my ear as you guide me to the right

Our room is the last one, a corner suite. Your hand is steady as you swipe your key card. A green light is illuminated, and you try the handle. It opens smoothly, almost silently, brushing over the lush carpet. Again you gesture for me to pass through the door before you. Your eyes sear into me from behind as I pause, almost breathless again, a mere two paces into the most beautiful hotel room I have ever seen. It is not just a room or even a standard suite. It is a complete apartment with high ceilings, heavy, polished furniture and all of the art and incidental decorations you would expect in an upscale residence. I wonder just how much money you have and what I'm doing here with someone like you.

I do not hear the door shut behind me, but I feel it. The air no longer moves. Sounds take on a stifled quality, my own breathing, especially. I swallow but my mouth is dry, and I begin to search frantically for the kitchen with my eyes. When I spot it, I set my small purse on the marble topped hall table and walk towards it as calmly as I can.

My heels sink unsteadily into the thick rug. I feel as ungainly as a colt, shaking at the knees. I reach the tiled floor without incident, locate a glass and fill it at the sink without looking back at you. But still, I know your eyes are following every motion. You know I'm terrified, yet you don't say a word. You set down your suitcase, papers and key card and follow behind me, soundless and agile, an embarrassing contrast to the scrapes and clicks of my heels every time I shift my weight.

I track your progress with my peripheral vision. I set down my empty glass. Somehow, my mouth still feels impossibly dry. But in another area I am wetter than I have ever been.

Your hands rest softly on my hips, and you inhale deeply, drawing in my scent and the signs of my arousal. I feel your hardness before it even touches me. The heat and pressure draws me to you. I lean back, pressing my weight against you. Feeling your cock digging insistently into my ass, I shift my knees to rub slowly against you and tilt my head back, exposing my neck to your hands and mouth.

We don't speak at all. We have long since used up our words, and all that remains is the need to finally consummate our lust.

* * *

I swim back from the depths of my fantasy, shocked by the force with which reality returns. I lie here, lost in a sea of cobalt sheets, crisp and cold. An abandoned life raft dragged by ocean currents, far from friendly shores. Deprived of even the memory of your scent.

My laptop stares at me blackly, as cold and blank as the void in my heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**I finally got around to extending this story. There will be 8-9 chapters in all. -Maggie**

* * *

6:15. Time to get up. Strange. I feel tired but restless, still trying to shed the vestiges of my dream.

The light is dim but growing slowly. In the gray pre-dawn I look around. This is my reality. My walls are bare except for my calendar. My desk is cluttered. Paper clips and dust bunnies play hopscotch between rings of dried coffee, slipping to hide beneath haphazard stacks of paper. The cleanest place, the only bare spot, is the rectangle where my laptop usually rests. I push back my sheets and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Fighting power cords and my own clumsy nature, I carefully set the computer back in its nest of Post-it notes and correspondence.

I fell asleep chatting with you again. I know I fell asleep before you. That is always the way. Are you ever tired? Do you sleep? How long did you wait for my response before giving up, logging off, turning in? Did you dream of me like I dreamed of you?

I lie back down, feeling drained but oddly alert. I remember the first words you shared. The first time I saw your face. The first time I heard you voice. I remember them and my heart aches. Would I have replied to you then if I knew how deep this ache would grow? Would I have opened my heart to a stranger if I had known that he would always be apart from me?

Possibly. . . No. I don't think I would. Three years ago, I would have believed it was not worth it. And now? I don't know. Maybe?

What drove me to create that profile? I was lonely, true. Recovering from a break-up and looking for. . . what? Sympathy? Flattery? Sex?

No. Not sex. Something deeper. Something real. Someone who could see inside me and love me. I was looking for validation to repair the damage from Jake leaving.

I was honest when I wrote my profile. I posted a real picture. It was the photo that Jake took of me sitting on the edge of the Kingston Ferry pier; tank top, capris, feet bare, hair a hopeless snarl of wind-tossed strands, and cheeks reddened by the salty air. I was smiling. No, I was laughing. Care-free and happy.

I guess I was looking for happy.

When my profile was ready, I clicked _submit_ and waited. Other singles viewed my profile. The counter steadily ticked higher as I watched, clicking_ refresh_ manically.

I received my first message. With a photo attached. Repulsed, I clicked _delete _and blocked the sender.

Dozens of messages flowed into my in-box. Some were offensive. Some were frightening. A very few were sweet and I viewed their profiles.

Hmm. . . Too old.

Married? Yikes.

Military. . . sorry, but I worry too much to date a soldier.

Scandinavia, wow, that's a long way away.

And then. . . Hmmm. . . Maybe. I sent a message to Nathan Grint. He replied that he was looking for a model for his photography project. Would I be willing to pose nude? Disillusioned again, I deleted his reply and logged out.

I went to work the next morning feeling a bit stupid and a lot depressed. I intended to delete my account when I got home. That was the plan.

I had 143 messages in my in-box when I logged in to my profile. 144. One arrived just as my mouse hovered over the 'Delete Account' option.

What if. . . ?

_E. Cullen. He's online right now. It can't hurt to read one more message. Can it?_ It turns out that it could. It did. You tear me up inside and you don't even know.

_From: E. Cullen_

_To: Rainy Day Dreamer_

_Your smile is sunshine and your hair falls like melted chocolate bliss. I want to laugh with you._

_Will you let me?_

_-Edward_

I remember the way my stomach flipped when I read your words. My throat clenched and tears flooded my eyes. I decided then and there that you were perfect. I sent you a reply message with my personal e-mail address and deleted my account. The other 143 messages evaporated into the ether and I didn't feel an ounce of regret.

I logged into my e-mail account and waited impatiently while the minutes ticked by. Did you receive my message? Would you take that leap and contact me outside the relative anonymity of the online dating universe?

As the minutes dragged on, my neck and back became stiff from the repressed excitement. Doubt crept in. Your message was too perfect. It was a dangly, sparkly lure for the hopelessly heart-broken romantic sap. Was I just being gullible? It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't even viewed your profile. I had no idea how old you were, what you looked like or where you lived. Were you even real?

I stood up with a sigh, hamstrings tight and eyes stinging. I needed a cup of hot tea and a walk. I stayed in the kitchen while waiting for the kettle to come to a boil. I unleashed my OCD on the cabinets, sorting and stacking my tea by variety and 'best by' date. The piercing whistle of the kettle sent my stomach into somersaults again. _Maybe I should just check my inbox one more time before my walk. While the tea steeps. _Instead, I stood and waited, staring at the dark swirls of flavor that spiraled slowly from the submerged tea bag.

Five minutes later found me clattering down the steps from my apartment, travel mug in hand and muffled in scarf, hat and gloves. E-mail could wait. I needed time to figure me out.

_What am I doing? I'm not a risk taker! This is stupid and desperate. A waste of time. I need to learn to be alone and be okay with that. I'm a wreck. Why would I wish someone like me on anyone else? Even if he does compare my hair to waterfalls of liquid chocolate. God, I need chocolate._

My walk had gained a purpose. I sipped my steaming tea, forced myself to smile casually at passers-by and set my sights on a bar of rich, dark chocolate.

My return trip from the market was slower. I nibbled my salted caramel chocolate bar and built castles in the clouds, casting myself as Cinderella and you as Prince Charming. Rich, handsome, kind. Awesome in bed. All the most important things. I painted a picture in my mind; dark, almost black hair with a slight wave, clear, blue eyes, athletic body just ounces shy of being bulky, crooked smile. . . _My Prince Charming looks like Clark Kent. Nevermind. You're probably a 50-year-old, overweight English teacher. Maybe you'll be content to just send me heart-stoppingly beautiful messages every day to make me feel special. Yeah, I'm selfish and shallow. This is not news._

I let myself back into my apartment and tossed my keys on the counter. My laptop had gone to sleep in my absence. With a shaking hand I swiped my finger across the touch pad. My heart rose higher into my throat with each beat as I waited for my laptop to wake up and refresh the windows.

2 new messages.

_Gulp_.

The first was a reminder about an upcoming department store sale. _Delete._

The second was from you. Edward Cullen. Photo Attached.

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Isabella Swan_

_I saw you deleted your profile. I followed suit. I think I found what I was looking for._

_Thank you. I'm smiling as I write this, and I haven't had a reason to smile for a very, very long time._

_-Edward_

I was smiling too. And maybe tearing up a bit. And then I opened the attachment and sat down. Hard. You're no Clark Kent, and you are definitely not a middle-aged academic. I got everything wrong except the lopsided grin. That smile made me your slave.

* * *

It didn't take long for e-mails to become cumbersome. It's hard to converse with hours or even days between question and answer. You invited me to chat one evening and I got to see your sense of humor and teasing wit. We talked about everything under the sun, but somehow avoided trading too many personal details.

**You – **

Age: 39

Closest big city: Chicago

Occupation: Asset Management (I still don't know exactly what that means, but I know you play with money)

Pets: No, but you've always wanted a dog

Favorite Color: Blue

Most Embarrassing Memory: Your dad confronting you when you were 14 for stealing your mom's Victoria's Secret catalog and hiding it under your bed. At the dinner table. In front of your mom and older sister.

**Me – **

Age: 27

Occupation: Underpaid assistant/gopher to the owner of seven local restaurants. I know everything there is to know about seasonal fluctuations in the prices of bulk produce. The biggest perk? I get to eat for half price.

Closest big city: Seattle

Pets: No. My fish died the day before Jake left. It was a shitty week.

Favorite Color: Brown

Most Embarrassing Memory: My dad taking me bra shopping when I turned 12. Actually, I think he was more embarrassed than me.

One night, almost two months after I deleted my online dating profile, you sent me your phone number in an e-mail. It took me four days to work up the courage to call you. Knowing you were in Chicago helped me procrastinate. How could I know the right time to call? You coaxed me forward with another e-mail.

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Isabella Swan_

_Call me. Please?_

_-Edward_

I dialed your number. If your smile owned me, your voice possessed me. Honeyed amber and warm brandy. I was addicted and did whatever I could to keep you on the phone night after night. You never cut me short. You never had to 'get some sleep for an early meeting'. You waited until my yawns outnumbered my coherent words and gently wished me good night.

It only took 67 days for our calls to slip from 'I want to get to know you' to 'I want to fuck you'. It probably would have taken less time, but you waited for me to make the first move.

I was feeling horny. That morning I masturbated to the fantasy of your voice whispering my name, your warm breath on my neck, your sweet words caressing me inside and out. Beautiful, brilliant, sunshine, gorgeous, happy, laugh with me. . .

I was scared and timid. I'm so humiliated by the memory that I want to groan and hide in the closet when I think of my clumsy attempts to steer you toward phone sex.

_"Edward?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"You aren't in any other relationships, are you?"_

_"You don't really think a girlfriend or wife would tolerate me being on the phone and computer with another woman for hours on end, do you?"_

_"Well, if she were like me, she wouldn't necessarily know, would she?"_

_"There's nobody else, Bella. Only you."_

_"How is this enough for you?"_

_"It isn't, but I won't take what you haven't chosen to give me, and there's nobody else in the world I want to share myself with."_

_"Not even physically?"_

_"Especially physically. Bella. . . I don't know how to say this, and please don't be hurt or angry, but I've wanted you since the first second I saw your picture. But I don't want it to be just fucking. I want to make love to you. You showed me everything I was missing in my life; freedom, laughter, beauty, excitement. . . I wanted you then and I want you even more now. I want to hold you and touch you and learn every inch of your body. I want to taste you and hear the sounds you make as I show you all the pleasure you give me and give it back to you in every way I can imagine. I want all of you, Bella, no matter how long I have to wait."_

_"You want to hear me?" _My voice was timid, pitched low and hesitant. There was a protracted pause.

_"Bella?"_

My breaths were coming shallow and fast as I worked up the nerve to take that step._ "You want to hear how good you made me feel this morning in the shower? I was thinking of you, wishing you were here, wishing I could see and touch and taste you, too. Then it was like heaven found me. I think I moaned your name out loud when I came. Is that what you want?"_

_"Oh, my God. . . Bella. Yes. I want to hear you. Are you. . . You aren't touching yourself right now. . . are you?"_

I was. And I did. That night and for countless nights after. Drowning in the pleasure of your voice and your moans and the hoarse, rasping gasps you make when you find your release. It was heaven. For a while. And then, I don't know how or when, but it became my own sort of hell. Our conversations, the ones that used to make me grin randomly at work the next day, became stilted and awkward. We were both desperate to get to the sex. Who wants to talk about work, friends, life or politics when they can be sharing mind-blowing orgasms? We didn't. We were transformed into junkies. And we lost something along the way.

You must have felt it too, because you started calling and texting me at times when you guessed I wasn't home. Phone sex wasn't an option on the city bus, but arguing about the ref's calls during last night's game was perfectly acceptable. You added the humor and personality back into our interactions and I don't know how, but it actually made our nightly sessions more fun. For a while, at least.

By some unspoken agreement, we never made plans to meet. Neither of us brought it up in conversation. You were waiting for me to make the first move. I'm sure of it. You would always let me take the lead when risk was involved. From the first phone call to the first time things turned sexual. But I wasn't ready for a long time, still scared and scarred from Jakes desertion. When I told you about him, you just called him a 'Neanderthal ass-clown' and left it at that. I laughed then, but your flippant dismissal hurt somehow. Was it wrong for me to expect an oath of unswerving loyalty right then? Of course it was. Wrong, unreasonable and completely irrational. Especially for a 10-day young, long distance relationship born from a dating website.

I never claimed to be reasonable or rational.

So, as months stretched into years and a stagnant weight settled over any possible future between us, I continued to escape into castles I built in the clouds. Safe, malleable and completely under my control.

I'm sorry. I don't know when the right time to bring it up was. But I do know that it's long passed.

* * *

I am almost late. My trip down memory lane has made me slow and clumsy while I try to prepare for work. I rush down the stairs with my thermos of black drip coffee in one hand and my lunch in the other. My purse thumps against my hip at every step. My bus stop is only half a block away but I barely make it in time. I'm the last one in line when the bus pulls up to the curb. I swipe my Orca Card and slide into the first empty seat. This isn't the first time I've cut it close because I was thinking of you. But it is the last.

I can't do this anymore. The texts. The calls. The chats. The moments of agonizing anticipation, waiting for your reply. Declining invitations for dates or drinks with friends because I'd rather get drunk on your voice. The heartbreak of shared orgasms a thousand miles apart, falling asleep fractured and frozen on a bed that's too big for my 5'4" frame.

If you were real, this would be different. But you're not. You're just a voice, a static smile, and 160 characters or less.

I take a shallow breath and look around me. The floor beneath my feet is slightly sticky. The girl beside me smells of Listerine and menthol cigarettes. Two college students sit behind me, quizzing each other to prepare for an engineering exam. A man in dark athletic pants and a grey knit beanie is walking his Black Lab puppy along the jogging path. A glimpse of his reddish-brown hair makes me think of you and I am heartsick wishing you could be that close. The morning sun glints off Green Lake between the skeletal arms of winter-bare trees. Shades of brown and gray whip by the bus windows as we accelerate. Is it almost Thanksgiving again already? My life has hung in suspended animation since I read your first beautiful, magical e-mail. These are the sights, smells and sounds that I have been blind to ever since.

I'm resurfacing for the first time in three years. It's painful, but the truth is, this is my life and you're not in it.

* * *

**A/N: I'm curious. . . Have you ever tried on-line dating? If so, what's the craziest response you got from the guys/gals who viewed your profile?**


	3. Chapter 3

"Bella, there you are. Finally!" – I'm only three minutes late – "I need you to schedule a meeting with all of the GMs this week. Drink tickets have been falling off all year and we need to come up with a strategy to get the most out of the holiday season. Between corporate holiday parties and New Years, I'm sure we can come up with some creative strategies to finish the year on a high note. Make it a lunch appointment if you can and call me on my cell once you have confirmation of day, time and location. Probably best to have it at _Rachelle's_ if we can book the back room. Oh, and call my wife and ask her to swing by at 5:00 for an early dinner because I'm going to be working late tonight. Thanks!"

Gary Flintoff, workaholic boss and notorious tight-wad, rattles off his instructions as he speeds past me out of the office. I drop into my chair with a sigh. Today is going to suck. Angela, our part-time receptionist and events coordinator, shoots me a sympathetic grin, but she is on the phone with a vendor and can't spare much more than that.

I settle down at my pristine, perfectly organized desk, the exact opposite of my personal space at home, and open Outlook to prepare for another grueling day.

Hours later, I'm racing against the clock to complete the paper goods order before the 11:00 cut off. If I don't make it they won't deliver by Friday and we can't last through the weekend without restocking. I missed the deadline once and Gary sent me out to Sam's Club on Saturday afternoon to pick up, deliver and restock everything myself. It was my mistake, but it pisses me off that he chooses to cut everything so close each week. He claims surplus stock encourages waste. That fiasco meant I missed our Saturday evening chat session. I haven't made the same mistake since.

I curse myself for thinking of you. It's the 20th time this morning, at least. Right on cue, my phone buzzes from the depths of my purse. There is only one person who would be texting me right now. I ignore it and continue with my work.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I click the 'order' button on the vendor's website at 10:54 and the internet actually cooperates. It's been freezing sporadically all morning. One hour until lunch. I have a long to-do list but the nagging feeling that started when my phone buzzed just won't go away. I bite my lip and dig into the bottom of my purse. Sure enough, your text is waiting for me.

_I hope you slept well. Your last msg was mostly 'k's and 'j's so I logged out. ;)__ There's something I need to tell you. Can you call me at lunch?_

The urge to call you is so powerful that I can't breathe. I need to end this. Today. But how? I definitely can't do it during lunch. I'll be a useless mess all afternoon.

Tonight. I'll call you tonight.

I can barely focus so I dissect my schedule into individual tasks and force myself to complete and cross them out one-by-one. Getting all seven GM's together this week is going to be impossible. Fortunately, _Rachelle's_ sales manager says she can book the banquet room for Thursday at lunch time. I confirm the date and time then I set about cajoling the GM's to be there or send their assistant managers.

When I call Gary's cell at 11:59 it goes straight to voicemail so I leave a message, grab my jacket and purse, and head outside for a walk. I finished my entire thermos of coffee this morning and the jitters have struck with a vengeance. I need something with plenty of meat and carbs to settle my stomach. The cold lasagna I packed doesn't sound appetizing at all. That's okay. I can reheat it for dinner tonight.

Out on the sidewalk I tell myself I will reply to your text when I get my food. It's raining and I don't want to get my phone wet. I walk the two blocks to _Giatorre's Deli and Bakery_, another one of our restaurants, as quickly as I can. My legs are stiff from sitting so long and the cold wet air seems to sink into my joints. The deli offers a blessed sanctuary of warm air and delectable odors. Sally recognizes me from behind the counter and greets me with a cheerful wave. I shift my weight uncomfortably while awaiting my turn to order. I could reply to you now, but I choose to review the hand-drawn menu boards even though I have them memorized.

My turn comes quickly. "Roast beef on whole grain bread with red onions, stone-ground mustard, lettuce, tomato and mayo, please."

"We should call that 'Bella's Monday Special'," she says with a laugh.

"What? Why?" I'm struggling to catch her train of thought.

"Because you always order that when you come in on Monday. If it were Tuesday you would order a turkey, bacon club on oat bread with no tomato. Wednesdays you order soup and salad. Thursdays are tuna on rye and Fridays are grilled Panini with roast beef and Swiss cheese. You are nothing if not consistent."

"Don't you mean 'predictable'?"

"Don't say that like it's a bad thing. It's good to know your own mind. Do you want anything to drink?" Sally asks.

"Some hot tea would be great. With lemon." Do I really know my own mind? I guess I do, in most things. But with you I can never figure myself out. I want to be bold and take risks, but I'm too scared and always chicken out seconds before the jump.

"Right away. Hey, why don't you sit at the counter right here. I have something to tell you as soon as I get through this line."

I agree readily, thankful for the excuse to leave my phone in the bottom of my purse. It would be rude to call or text you when Sally might only have a couple minutes free here and there. The Monday lunch rush is pretty intense. I swirl the tea bag in figure eights and then spirals, creating a maelstrom in my cup. A loose fragment of tea leaf hovers on the edge of the whirlpool before being sucked down into the vortex. It bobs back to the surface then is dragged under again five more times. A middle-aged business man is slurping soup to my left and the girl on my right is tapping her fingernails obsessively on the countertop while waiting for her order. I am by far the least annoying of the three.

Sally slides a plate and soda to the finger tapper and then places my sandwich in front of me. I smile my thanks and take my first bite before raising my eyebrows to tell her I am ready to listen.

"So, you know Rick and I have been together for almost three years, right?"

"Sure," I reply. She first told me about him soon after we started e-mailing. I didn't tell her about you.

"Well, he asked if we could skip the family Thanksgiving plans this year and keep it just the two of us. He says he wants to do something private and special. Isn't that romantic?" Her blue eyes are shining and she seems to vibrate with barely contained excitement.

"That isn't all, is it?" I ask knowingly.

"Not even close. On Saturday night he had to run down to the car to get something and I couldn't find the TV remote. I never did find it, but while I was looking through the side table, I found a blue velvet box."

"Judging by the nearly psychotic level of excitement pouring off of you, it wasn't a pair of earrings or a charm bracelet. Am I right?" She's bouncing on her toes and grinning so big my cheeks hurt in sympathy.

"It's a ring. And it's gorgeous and perfect and I can't believe he's going to propose! I haven't told anyone else yet, but you are such a good listener and I just couldn't hold it in anymore. I'm so wired I feel like I'm going to burst!"

"Well, please don't," I tease, making a disgusted face.

"Hardy har har. Bella, one of these days you are going to fall ass over tea kettle in love with the most perfect man in the world and then you won't be in any position to tease me."

"And a damn lot of good that will do me since he's asking you to marry him next week."

"Well then, the second most perfect man in the world."

"Sounds like a deal."

At that moment a group of four laughing girls comes through the door and Sally returns to work with one more bounce and a wink. I'm glad I haven't told anybody about you. I won't have to explain to anyone how or why our relationship failed after I end things tonight.

* * *

It is no longer a challenge to leave my phone in my purse after talking to Sally. Something about seeing her genuine happiness and the real, pressing events in her life gives me the conviction I need. It is easier that I expected to concentrate on work throughout the afternoon. I barely even notice when my purse buzzes softly three more times in quick succession. I'm hardly even tempted to read whatever it is that you sent me that required three texts to transmit.

* * *

It's 6:17 according to the DVD player when I enter my apartment. It's been dark for almost an hour. My phone has lain silent and still at the bottom of my purse since your last text at 1:19. Five hours. I almost always reply to your texts during lunch or immediately after work. Today is different and I wonder what you must be thinking.

My thoughts consume me. Where are you? What are you doing? Who are you with? These questions pop into my brain like bubbles at regular intervals. And, like suds in the tub, they gather on the surface in iridescent clusters blocking out all other thoughts. It's almost 8:30 your time. If I follow our routine you should be expecting a call or chat message in about 10 minutes.

20 minutes come and go. My phone is still sitting in my purse which I placed on the coffee table when I came in. I'm frozen in indecision. I can't end it by text or chat. I need to call you. I grit my teeth and reach for my purse. I hear and feel it buzz. Once. Twice. Three times. I count a total of seven vibrations before it is still and silent. I am on edge. Antsy and nauseated. For a moment I think I hate you for bringing me to this state.

Calling you is the only act I can take to reclaim my life and peace of mind. I hold my breath as I dive my hand into my purse, grab my phone and unlock the screen. Just as I expected. Three missed texts and a missed call, all from you.

I dismiss the missed call first and then select the initial text.

_(1/3) I know this is a hectic time of year for your company so our lunch-time chats might be cut short a lot. Can you call me when you get home tonight? There's _

_(2/3) something really important I want to tell you. Face-to-face if possible. Something good, I think. And there's also someone I want to introduce you to. Are you okay_

_(3/3) w/ Skype? It's easy to set up an acct if you don't have one. My Skype ID is at the end of this text. Call me when you get home and settled. Later, babe. _

There's something really important I need to tell you, too. But I am both curious and nervous about this individual that you want to introduce me to. I know so little about your life outside of us. Your sister? A co-worker? My brain conjures random faces and roles until I'm dizzy.

I already have a Skype account. I set it up a couple years ago to video chat with my mom. I never mentioned it to you. And, true to your character, you never asked. Never pushed.

Until now.

Now, when I've finally resolved to call it quits. Now, when I've finally given up on ever having more. You're offering more. You're asking for more. One step closer to that 'real' I was looking for. Do I want more? With the carrot dangling in front of me, I am forced to acknowledge that I just don't know.

What we've had these past few years has been exhilarating and tantalizing, but safe. Always an arm's length away. Always a clear line of demarcation. You're inviting me across the line. And I am terrified.

I settle myself into my desk chair. I should fix my make-up, dress up my eyes a bit, put on lipstick. I should at least brush my hair and put on a cute top. This forest green mock turtle neck is perfect for a dreary Seattle evening but far from sexy or chic. I ignore my girlish impulses and log in to Skype. What you see is what you get. Plain, frumpy, tired Bella. If I am honest about wanting something real, I'm not starting off with a lie. My pride can take a hike.

I type in your ID and my cursor hovers over the 'dial' button.

I can't do it. It's too much. I chicken out.

I pick my cell phone back up and dial your number. Seconds pass. The phone rings several times with a tinny sound in my ear. I am just about to breathe a sigh of relief when you finally pick up.

"Bella? Hey! Are you okay?" Your voice is breathless. Excited. A faint note of concern overlays your normally rich, warm voice.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just tired. It was a pretty hectic day. How are you?" Even to my ears my voice sounds tense and hesitant. The easy, comfortable rapport we used to share is gone.

"I'm good. Great, actually. I received some incredible news this morning and I've been dying to tell you about it all day." You are fighting to maintain your light-hearted tone. You can tell. You can sense it. You must know what has been on my mind all day because you forge ahead with barely a pause. "You probably remember how I told you I was under consideration for a big promotion by the partners of my firm. And then a few months ago they put me in charge of the launch of a new satellite office. The launch went so well that I've been offered a permanent position as the Regional Director."

"Wow, Edward. That's. . . that's incredible!" I do remember that conversation from many months ago. It has been a source of both excitement and extreme anxiety. My happiness for you is unforced, but I can't help the nagging sense of inferiority I feel. You're a rising executive and I'm a gopher. The distance between us is greater than ever. At 30 years old, I should really be doing something with my life. I know my Communications degree and intelligence are wasted working for Gary, but I have never had the ambition or focused desire to look for something more. My job pays the bills with a little left over each month. Now my complacency looks pathetic. Trapped beneath a blanket of insecurity I tune out a lot of what you are saying. A few key words cut through. "Wait! You're moving?"

"Actually, I already have. The position was originally supposed to be temporary but I found a house I loved near the city and closed on it eight weeks ago. Now that I know I can stay here instead of renting it out, I'm selling my condo in Chicago. And that brings me to the other thing I wanted to tell you. Do you have a Skype account?"

This is it. It's now or never. I have to tell you it's over. If I don't do it now, I'll be trapped in this limbo existence indefinitely with you climbing ever higher and my fantasies crushing me more completely every time I resurface.

"Bella?"

How long have I been silent? I'm frozen in fear and anticipation of the pain. Tear off the Band-Aid? I can't. It's plastered down with hardened epoxy. It will take my skin off with it. I'll be here naked, bleeding, alone.

"Bella? Are you there? Look, I know it's a big step. I'm scared too, but I want to move forward with you. I'm ready for something real. Something permanent. But I need to see you. My imagination could never build somebody as beautiful and complex as you and I don't even want to try any more. Will you take this step with me? Please?"

The decision is up to me. It always has been. With your resources I'm sure you could easily find out where I live, fly here and show up at my door, but you have always respected my boundaries and allowed me to set the pace. Even though my pace has been positively glacial.

"I don't know, Edward. I've been thinking a lot lately. About us. About this thing we have. . . And the things we don't have. And I . . . I think it's . . ."

"Bella, please. You have to know how much I care about you. How much I depend on you. How I want to be there for you in every way, not just a voice on the phone. I want to see you." I raise my voice to object but you barrel on. "I don't mean we have to meet right now. I just want to talk to you face-to-face. But sometime soon, I would like to talk for real. We could meet somewhere neutral. Grab dinner and a show in Seattle."

"No!" I'm surprised at the force behind my reply. Scenes from last night's dream flood my brain. Desperation. . . Longing. . . Humiliation.

"What do you mean? No to Skype or no to meeting?"

"No to everything. Edward, I can't. I just can't do this anymore."

"Is there somebody else? I mean, I never asked before. I shouldn't have assumed, but. . ."

"No. There's nobody else. Just me. And the fact is we're too different."

"Of course we're different. You calm me down and cheer me up. You showed me how to laugh at myself. I was bitter and heart-broken and, frankly, a bit jaded when I first saw your photo. Your smile and your words healed me. That's why I love you."

"Oh, God, Edward. Don't. Don't say that."

"But I do. I have for a long time."

"You don't even know me!"

"I know everything I need to know."

"That might not even have been me in the picture. I could be middle-aged, horribly disfigured, unemployed, or worse!"

You clear your throat to cover your laughter. "You say 'middle-aged' like it's a form of leprosy. I'm 42 years old, Bella. I'm not decrepit but I'm old enough to know that I don't want to waste another second of this life. I know what I want. I want to spend my life with you."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if you don't log into the Skype account which I'm 99 percent certain you have and tell me you don't want me to my face, I'll track you down, show up at your door and make you tell me in person."

Can you read my mind? Your assertion matches my earlier thoughts exactly. I think I've lost the ability to speak. I am simultaneously scared, offended and seriously turned on. The overtones of my dream come back to me. Your confidence. Your control. You taking the lead. Subconsciously I think I've wanted that all along.

"What's it going to be, Isabella?"

"Just give me a minute." How the hell did this happen? I've gone from deciding to break up with you to buckling under your demands. The funny thing is, this doesn't bother me as much as I think it should. "I'm dialing you now. Just don't. . . Don't freak out when you see me. Monday's suck in general and today was worse than most."

"You could never disappoint me."

_You and your magic words. _

You hang up your phone a fraction of a second before the video chat screen opens. I dip my head and close my eyes before I can see you. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. _I'm not ready._

"Isabella? Love? Please look at me." Your voice reaches across the miles to caress me, sooth me, reassure me. The fear I felt before is fading. You are right there. In front of me. If I can only force myself to open my eyes.

I take a breath, deep and shuddering. My eyes are stinging, overflowing with tears. I open them. The screen is a blur. I blink and your face gradually comes into focus. Your beautiful, sexy, beloved face.

Your eyes are darker than the photo you sent me, almost mossy green, framed by lashes as thick and long as my own. They shine with moisture. And you are smiling. I find myself smiling too as I stare, taking in all the details that I have only imagined all these years. Your hair is a tousled blend of bronze and auburn strands going to gray at your temples. Your face is clean shaven and I notice a small scar just to the left of your upturned lips. You have smile lines around your mouth and at the corners of your eyes. They make me think of all the silliness and laughter we've shared. I like them. I like to think I've made my mark on your life.

"Hey, you."

"Hi. This is. . . strange."

"Strange but incredibly awesome. Hey, you cut your hair!"

I self-consciously brush back the strands that fall across my eyes. "Yeah, a few months ago. Angela's mother is fighting breast cancer and so we both donated our hair to make wigs for cancer patients. We didn't feel like there was much else we could do."

"That's incredibly selfless of you. And it suits you."

"Um. Thanks. But it's not really a big deal. I mean, it's already growing back."

"My mother it a cancer survivor, so I've shared that journey with someone I love. It's a horribly painful and trying time. What you two did probably gave Angela's mother a greater sense of hope, dignity and comfort than you realize."

"Thanks, I guess. She's still undergoing treatment, but so far her oncology team is pretty optimistic. They caught it early on."

"That's wonderful. I'll be praying for her recovery." I didn't know you prayed. I'm far from religious myself and I wonder what other revelations we will unearth. Your teasing voice breaks through my thoughts. "So, I believe you had something you were going to say to me."

My eyes dart back to yours in shock. Your tone is playful, challenging. But your eyes tell the truth. You're scared. Surprisingly, your fear doesn't make me feel powerful or in control. If anything, I feel the weight of enormous responsibility. My future and yours hinge on what I choose to say next. Jake didn't show any sign of that understanding when he left me. I doubt he thought about my future at all. He was done, so he moved on. Simple. But there is nothing simple between you and me. Trapped by your gaze, I am as lost and confused as ever. Video chat is a step forward, true. But it is not sharing a life or a future. We will be just as constrained as we have been all along. I decide to tell you exactly what I'm feeling. I've always been honest with you. Perhaps too honest. I set my fears aside and plunge forward.

"Edward, everything I said earlier still applies. As incredible as it is to sit across from you and see you speaking and smiling, I want more. But I'm not leaving Seattle and the life I have here to be an accessory. You have a phenomenal job, more money than Scrooge and a lifestyle that I can only imagine. I hate my job, sure, but it's something I'm good at and I'm completely independent. There are people here who count on me. I have friends and neighbors. I'm close enough to visit my dad on long weekends. This is my real life and I'm just not comfortable throwing it all away on a maybe." I finish in a rush, no longer looking you in the eye. Instead I am staring at your mouth. I can't understand what it so amusing.

"Bella, please look at me. I haven't asked you to leave Seattle and your life there. The last thing I want is a trophy girlfriend who can't do anything more that look cute. I want a partner. I want a friend. I want to be with you, take walks, cook together and go on vacations, maybe even do something crazy like going zip-lining in Costa Rica. Everything that makes life interesting and fun. I certainly don't want to do those things alone."

"So what are you proposing?"

"Well, someday soon it would be nice to meet you in person. At least we could get comfortable around each other and start building some shared memories and experiences."

"Like sex?" I honestly don't know where that came from. Maybe I feel the need to test you. You are shocked and struggling to come up with a response. Your cheeks are stained pink and I feel my own warming in response. A delayed reaction.

"I wasn't actually going there. Although, I think you know my feelings about having sex with you. I was referring to holding hands, talking, spending time together, getting to know each other in this new dimension of visual space. And maybe, when you're comfortable, we can try advancing to first or second base."

"You know what? I have always hated the baseball references. Why didn't they pick football? You know, like first down, second down, touchdown, field goal."

"You got me. Maybe because it's the American pastime?"

"What, sex?"

"Baseball. But sex, too." We're both laughing now and just like that, the tension and the angst evaporate.

"Okay, I think I can handle that. At least until we figure out where we want to go from there. I mean, we've had a long distance relationship for almost three years so I'm not worried about that. But I don't have a ton of money for plane tickets and hotel rooms. And I am NOT having you pay my way all the time."

"Of course not. But, at least for the first couple weekends, I can come to you."

"Like this weekend?" My voice rises to an unnaturally high pitch. I hear an odd scuffling sound in the background picked up by your speakers.

"Yeah. Sure. Unless you have plans."

"Um, no. I'm driving out to my dad's house for Thanksgiving next Wednesday, but I'm free this weekend. So, do you want to make your travel arrangements and then tell me where to meet? Or do you want me to pick you up from the airport? Oh, and what were you talking about in your text earlier about introducing me to someone?"

"I better meet you there in Seattle. I won't be traveling alone."

I feel my face freeze stiff as cardboard. "You're bringing someone with you? What, do you have a kid or something you haven't told me about?" My voice projects the magnitude of my confusion and escalating hysteria. This is too much.

"No! No, nothing like that. But you might as well meet him now since I've got you on the screen. Barkley, come here! Here boy!" Your call is met by an immediate scrambling and cheerful barking. The image on my laptop wobbles and shakes as a boisterous black puppy jumps up against your chest. Watching you ruffle his fur and talk to him while he pants and bounces is so adorable that my eyes begin to tear up again.

"Edward, he's gorgeous. When did you get him?"

"I picked him up this morning, but I met him when he was two weeks old. I was just waiting for the news about my promotion before buying him. Now that I know I'll be living in a house instead of a condo I can finally have a dog. I've been visiting him several times a week and I took the whole day off today to get him acquainted with the house, yard and neighborhood. He's absolutely the best dog ever. Aren't you, Barkley? You're the smartest, coolest dog ever born!"

I giggle as I watch you interacting with your puppy. He adores you. He probably idolizes you. I can relate.

"A new house, a new job, a new puppy. You're building a whole new life for yourself, aren't you?"

"And a new car. It's a hatchback. I love Barkley but I really don't want his hair and muddy paws all over my other car."

"Wow. Big changes."

"Yeah. Big changes," you reply with a grin and a wink. "Oh, I almost forgot. I need to give you my new home phone number."

"Sure. Let me type it into my phone." I open my contact list and select your name to edit. "Okay, shoot."

"It's 2-0-6. . ."

My hands are paralyzed. With my mouth open and my eyes wide I look at you. "So. . . I guess you won't need a ride from the airport." You shake your head slowly while your lips stretch into the cocky, lop-sided grin I adore. "Okay. Wow. Okay. . . I'll probably need the other seven numbers."

I save the changes and sit there, fidgeting with my phone. My brain is spinning with this new revelation. You're here. In Seattle. I can see you, in the flesh, in less than 30 minutes if I choose. It's too much, too sudden. A growing sense of betrayal winds its way through me.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"I just did."

"Don't fuck with me, Edward. How long have you been here?"

"Almost five months."

"Five months! Five fucking months? And you didn't tell me until today? Why the hell not?" I'm almost screaming now, hurt and shocked and growing angrier by the second. All that time, all those bitterly cold, lonely nights, all those fractured fantasies. . .

"To what purpose? You weren't ready to meet, or else you would have asked months ago. Years ago. And I wasn't about to force the issue, especially if my job here was only temporary. The only thing harder than staying away from you would be having you and then leaving you behind. I don't think I could have survived that. Bella, I've been working my ass off these last few months to build something permanent here. Something real that I know I can count on and you can trust. I found out this morning that I made it. I'm here to stay. If you'll have me."

_If you'll have me. . ._

Those words are pinging around inside my head as I stare at you, wide-eyed, slack-jawed and speechless. You are absently stroking Barkley's head and he keeps nudging you for more attention. You waited until you had something to offer me before taking the lead. Something real. Something permanent. A way to give me more without taking anything away from the life I already have. You're offering me a bright, shiny future better than all of my fantasies. So why am I terrified?

I already know the answer.

Jake.

It happened once, it can happen again. If I commit to taking the next step with you, I know there will be no going back for me. I will be giving you the power to reject me, break me, destroy my. Only with you, it would be one thousand times worse than Jake. If I open my heart to you completely and you break it, there will be nothing left to salvage.

With your eyes scrutinizing my face, you read so much more than silence. You sense the path my thoughts have turned down and lean into the camera. "No. Bella, no. Don't shut me out. I know you're probably terrified. So am I. We've both been hurt before. But I refuse to allow my past to dictate my future. I will not deny myself the opportunity to love you every day for the rest of my life. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be adored. And I'm not saying it has to be me, but unless there is somebody else who you can't bear to say goodnight to, who you call out to in your sleep, whose name you gasp out when you come, who thinks about you every second of every day the way I do. . . unless there is somebody else who loves you more than I do, then I think you should-"

"Okay." It isn't a passive response. It's acceptance of everything you mean to me on every level of my being. The possibility of heartbreak is not as frightening as the guarantee of never getting to see, touch, taste and smell you. I need you to be real. Even if it doesn't last.

"What? Really? You're not just saying that because I bullied you into it, are you?"

"No. I mean it. I am tired of being scared. I haven't been able to take a single step without looking down to make sure I'm not too close to the edge. And I'm sick of it. If I don't take this leap with you, no matter what it may cost me, I will be trapped for the rest of my life. I'm still terrified to the point of hyperventilating, but I want to see you. This weekend."

I've dreamed of this for so long that I'm afraid I won't be able to stand waiting four more days. They will feel like an eternity. But I also know that I will need to process things for a day or two after I see you for the first time. I will need time to differentiate between this new reality and the fantasies I have built up between us. I accused you earlier of not knowing me. The truth is that I don't know you. I don't know who you are separate from the 'Edward Cullen' construct that haunts my dreams both day and night. Unless I can distinguish between the two, we are destined to fail.

Your expression is as serious and determined as my own. "This weekend," you agree.

This is one night that we don't talk until I'm delirious with exhaustion. I offer you a small smile and thank you for introducing me to Barkley then tell you goodnight.

"Goodnight, love," you reply. I catch the hopeful twinkle in your eyes before my screen goes blank.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'm not normally one for long author's notes, but I have to start this chapter with an enormous THANK YOU to Tarbecca and all the wonderful gals over at A Different Forest. Thank you for including me in your community and being such an open, sharing, helpful group. I'm honored that you chose to rec my story! I normally update on Friday's, but I was inspired to get this ready ahead of schedule. :-)

* * *

I have never resented my job as much as I do right now. I started my day with a raging headache, phantom memories of anxiety-induced nightmares, and a broken coffee maker. Now Gary is turning all of my progress from yesterday upside down and inside out. I am reworking my schedule for today to accommodate the list of handwritten instructions I found on my keyboard when I came in.

"He's just pissy because he got in a fight with Olivia last night," Angela whispers to me while filing new service contracts in the cabinet by my desk.

"Again? What is it this time?" I shouldn't care about my boss's drama with his wife, but it seems to be hard-wired to his attitude at work.

"I heard her start in on him when I was leaving last night. She wants a baby and he can't stand the idea."

"Who would want a baby with him? He's an asshole workaholic. He would be a terrible father." I am normally better at censoring myself, but everything feels so raw and close to the surface.

Angela giggles and rolls her eyes, not at all shocked by my assessment. "She already has three Chihuahuas and more plastic surgery than anybody should subject their body to. Maybe she's bored. I can't say I blame her."

I nod in agreement. Olivia fits the trophy wife stereotype to a T. Immaculate make-up, salon-styled hair, perfect manicure, designer clothes. Her job is to look gorgeous next to her successful restaurateur husband. From what I can tell, your opinion is the opposite of Gary's. Your attitude about almost everything is. I ask myself again how I ended up working here.

"Hey, Angela?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever considered looking for something else? Like, another job?"

"Why else do you think I asked Gary if I could back off to part-time earlier this year? I'm back in school. I know it's going to take a while only taking two courses per quarter, but I started classes at U-Dub back in September and I'm going to apply for nursing school as soon as I finish the pre-reqs. This job is just a means to an end. I am definitely not working for Scary Gary any longer than necessary." She ends with a theatrical shiver.

"That's so awesome. Good for you, Angela."

"If you girls are just gonna stand around and gossip you can take an early lunch and clock back in when you're ready to work!" Gary is glaring at us as he shoulders his way through the front door and drops two heavy boxes on Angela's desk. "If not, you can make yourselves useful and assemble these. They need to be delivered to _Rachele's_ before their lunch hours start today."

Another last second task. Big surprise. We clear off Angela's desk to make room for assembling the creamy vellum printed menus and their red faux leather folders. Gary knows how to make a restaurant look classy, churn out delicious food and turn a sizable profit, but he is a royal pain in the ass. I make up my mind to start my search for a real career this evening. You aren't the only one who can build a new life for yourself. And I can't wait to have a big announcement of my own to share. In person.

Angela can't understand why I am humming happily through this tedious, mundane task.

* * *

My phone buzzes while I'm walking to _Giatorre's_ for lunch.

_Thinking of you and your beautiful smile._

I reply immediately. _You make me smile._

Your response is almost instantaneous. _Mission: Accomplished._

I'm grinning as I step into the fragrant warmth of the deli. Sally waves cheerfully in greeting. It seems I've joined her on Cloud 9.

I call you after I finish my standard Tuesday order - turkey, bacon club on oat bread with no tomato. My call goes straight to voice mail so I hang up. I hate leaving messages. Instead I snap a picture of the overflowing dessert case and send it to you with a question mark. I am halfway through my second cup of hot tea when you reply.

_(1/2) Evil woman. My client noticed the dazed look on my face and asked me if I was getting inappropriate messages at work. I showed him the picture. He wants _

_(2/2) me to order a whole 'triple chocolate torte' to-go in exchange for a signed contract. _

_Where should I have Sally send it?_

_You are an enchantress. You just closed a 4.3 million dollar deal that I've been working on for 3 ½ months. Address follows._

_Don't ever underestimate the power of chocolate. Mwah ha ha ha ha. And you owe me $27.95 plus tax, tip and delivery._

Sally is happy to have the torte delivered. She asks who it's for so I just say you are a new business contact. And I buy a slice for myself to eat tonight. I receive your next text while I'm walking back to the office. It makes me trip over thin air.

_Don't worry. I always pay my debts._

The almost threatening tone turns me on. I can't wait to collect.

* * *

"So. How was your day?"

"For the most part it was pretty shitty, but now I'm enjoying a cup of decaf coffee and a slice of triple chocolate torte. It's unbelievably delicious."

"What? You didn't get one for me, too?"

"I sent you a whole damn cake. Didn't you get a slice?"

"No. Mr. Simmons took it back to his office to celebrate."

"And you think you're a tough negotiator. Ha! You should have at least gotten to taste it."

"I was too busy trying to control my grin of triumph to realize he was walking out of the door with the whole thing. Oh well. It was more than worth it. You're timing is so good it's almost spooky. Feel free to text me food porn at work any time."

"Yay! Free license! They have the most unbelievable fresh berry tarts in the spring and summer. I'm going to blitz you with pictures one day. You aren't going to know what hit you."

"Can't wait." Your contented chuckle makes me smile. I've been smiling a lot today.

We're talking the old-fashioned way. By phone. Skyping when you are just a few miles away seems weird. I like this. It isn't heavy or awkward. It's familiar and warm. I'm wearing baggy flannel sleep pants from the men's department at JC Penny, a ratty tank top and my purple bathrobe. You're still at work so I'm assuming you are wearing a suit. I wish I could see you.

_Soon. . . Soon._

"Are you working late because you took yesterday off or because I closed a mega deal for you today and you need the contract ironed out ASAP?"

"A little bit of both. But don't let it go to your head, rookie. That was sheer blind luck."

"Lucky for you."

"Damn lucky for me. The big wigs back in Chicago will be thrilled. Especially because four mil is just a drop in the bucket of the Simmons Trust. If we do well we could see that account grow astronomically in the next few years."

"Just remember me when you get your big Christmas bonus check. I need new tires on my truck."

"You can have a new truck to go with the new tires."

"Nuh uh. I love my truck. I just need new tires."

"Consider it done."

"Sweet! So what's Barkley up to while you're working late? Sampling your leather shoes or removing all the fluff from your couch cushions?"

"Oh, gosh. I hope not. Actually I paid the boy next door to feed and walk him after school each day. His mom is allergic to dogs so he can't have one of his own. It's a win-win for everyone."

"Lucky kid. I baby sat to make money when I was a teenager. Babies are gross. I would rather scoop dog poop than deal with the snot, vomit, boogers and diapers."

"Does that mean you don't want kids?"

I sense a shift in the direction of this conversation. We've talked about kids and child-rearing philosophies before, but it was all hypothetical. It has never felt like we were talking about _us _until now. I try to keep my voice casual when I reply. "Not right now. Maybe in a few years. My biological clock hasn't started the panicked countdown yet."

"Well let me know when it does. I might be able to help with that."

"Are you offering to knock me up?" I don't know whether to laugh, scoff, drive to your office (since I do have the address now) and jump your bones, or run screaming for the hills.

"Well I don't want anyone else doing it." Your spontaneous laughter eliminates my escalating 'fight or flight' impulse, but I think I'm still tempted to come find you.

I tamp down my raging hormone response as well as I can. "Ah. That's good to know. I'll let you know if NASA launch controllers start invading my subconscious."

"I don't really need much notice. A simple, 'I'd like you to fuck me now.' should suffice. After that we have about nine months to take care of all the other preparations, right?"

"Oh my gosh! Should you really be talking dirty to me while you're at work?"

"First of all, it's 8:45 and I'm the only one here. My office door is closed and I'm on my personal cell phone. Besides, I'm the boss. I've got a two inch thick stack of contracts and forms to go through before I can head home. I think I am entitled to a short break before diving back into miles of small print legal jargon."

"Have you ever done this before? Been on the phone with me while you're at work?" I'm not just referring to talking and you know it.

"Almost every night. It helps that I have my own private bathroom." Your voice is teasing. Lower, husky and heavy with innuendo.

And now I'm wet.

Despite the warmth of my robe, I shiver. My nipples tighten and press against the ribbed cotton of my tank top. I am not yet committed to doing this. Knowing where you are makes it feel illicit, somehow naughtier than when I believed we were both at home in the privacy of our own bedrooms.

"Bella? Are you touching yourself?"

"No," I reply, but the tense quaver in my voice gives me away.

"Yes you are. I am, too. Closing a big deal always makes me horny. The fact that you played a critical part just makes me want to fuck you more. Are you ready for me?"

"You know I am. I always am. But I really don't think we should be doing this, Edward." Unbidden, my fingers creep up to my waistband, caressing the soft skin of my belly.

"We absolutely should be doing this. We are doing this. I'm imagining you here with me, in my office. I would bend you over my desk with your butt up in the air so I could slide right into you. Can you feel my hands on your ass?"

My knees wobble even though I'm sitting down. Hearing your fantasies makes me weak. I inch my pajamas down over my hips, to my knees and impatiently kick them off. The air is cold against the dampness of my cotton underwear. I press my fingers flat against the throbbing heat between my legs. I can feel my pulse with my fingertips, an insistent staccato beat.

I close my eyes to visualize the scene you're painting for me. "Yeah, I feel them. I love how strong your hands are. I love the way your fingers dig into my hips when you're behind me, driving into me."

You groan and I hear the tell-tale sound of you lowering your zipper. "Hold that thought. I'm so hard right now. I want to make sure you're as wet as I can get you before I take you. I want to fuck you so hard that. . . Oh, shit! Somebody's here. Gotta go!"

The line goes dead.

What the fuck?

I'm so put out. Should I be amused or annoyed? I settle for sending you a snarky text.

_Told you so._

I brush my teeth, wash my face and put on a pair of clean underwear. Going to bed alone and frustrated doesn't bother me quite as much as it did a few days ago. I am drifting off to sleep when my phone buzzes from my bedside table.

_Saved by the (elevator) bell. FYI - One of these days I __**will**__ have you on my desk. You've been warned._

My anxiety from this morning has been replaced by the sweet taste of certainty. You will have me. And I will have you.

* * *

**Is there a term for being cock-blocked during phone sex? Hmmm. I'm afraid to Google that one.**


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Wow. Thank you for all of the 'Follows' and 'Favorites'! I can't believe this story started as an itty bitty worm inside my head and yet has attracted so much attention. Here we go. . ._

* * *

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday pass in a blur. I am impervious to irritations. Gary's tirades slip past me without touching me. Angela and Sally seem to be eyeing me suspiciously, but they both hold their own counsel. For now.

Our conversations have been cut short by work requirements on both sides. This has only amplified my impatience. It's 6:30 on Friday evening. I am sitting at my small dining table, staring at my phone.

Tomorrow is the day.

We have yet to make concrete plans. I know I want to meet you somewhere neutral. Public. Definitely not here. I have been cleaning my apartment sporadically all week, yet it still looks cluttered and messy to me. But that isn't even my main reason. If I meet you alone, there will be no talking. I would jump straight to sex even if we were both trying to fight it. Three years of unresolved sexual tension will do that to a girl.

I pick up my phone and type out a text.

_Tomorrow. 8:30. Breakfast. Cute coffee shop S. end of Green Lake. Bring Barkley._

_Barkley can't protect you._

_True. But I'm not the one who needs protection._

_Hmmmm. I think I know the place. We'll see you there._

I found several promising job listings this week so I open my lap top and try to work on my resume. The words blend together into a meaningless, homogenous smear.

I know I should eat something but my stomach is twisting itself into impossibly complicated knots. Instead, I pop M&amp;Ms into my mouth one at a time while I sweep, vacuum and then clean the kitchen. 45 minutes later I am out of things to do. You haven't called or texted so I assume you are still at work. I hate that I am sitting at home at 7:20 on a Friday evening waiting for you to call. A mischievous idea comes to mind. There is no reason why I need to hang out here. I take a few minutes to gather the necessary supplies, assemble a surprise 'gift' for you and jog out to my truck.

Traffic in town is surprisingly light considering it is the last Friday before the holidays start. It is only 7:53 when I swipe my debit card for parking and enter the lobby of your building.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but the building is closing in about five minutes. Can I help you?"

I smile gratefully to the security guard. "Yes, thank you so much. I made it just in time. I have a delivery for Edward Cullen. His office is on the 24th floor. It's critical that he has this before an important meeting he's attending tomorrow morning. Should I run it up to him or can I leave it here with you?"

"You can leave it here. We'll page him. Do you require a signature?"

"No that's fine. Thank you so much." I hand over the innocuous looking cardboard box.

The label reads –

_To: E. Cullen_

_From: Rainy Day Dreamer_

_Good luck at your appointment tomorrow. I hope you close the deal. _

Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, is a pair of sky-blue silk underwear trimmed with darker blue lace and a bow. I've never worn them because they are so damned uncomfortable, but they look sexy and provocative.

I hurry back to my truck and drive back to my apartment feeling giddy and silly. My phone alerts me to an incoming text as I'm pulling into my parking stall. I fumble around in my purse, eager to read your response.

_Naughty girl. You're playing with fire. It's a good thing you didn't deliver these in person because I would have you naked on the floor of my office right now._

I come back to my senses sitting on the ice-cold asphalt next to the open door of my truck. Somehow, no matter what we've both said to the contrary, I don't think we'll be strolling casually around the bases. I'm kind of counting on a grand slam my first time at bat.

* * *

Saturday dawns bright and clear. Through my bedroom window I can see the depthless, gray-blue skies characteristic of the colder months in Seattle. I take my time in the shower, exfoliating, shaving and soaking away the tension that has been building all week. I toy with the idea of stroking myself to orgasm, but I know nothing will feel complete until I share that with you.

I choose my outfit carefully - dark skinny jeans to show off my thighs and butt. Brown leather ankle boots with a small heel - cute but comfortable enough to walk several miles in. I layer a dove-gray sweater over a white camisole and check my reflection. All the walking I do helps to keep me trim but I can still see a slight bulge at my waist. I remind myself that I am 30 not 18 and consciously tighten my stomach. That's a bit better. I'm wearing one of the few matching bra and panty sets I own. It is champagne blush pink, almost white. My jewelry complements my underwear; pale pink freshwater pearl earrings with a matching pendant on a white gold chain.

I blow dry my hair with a round brush to add a bit of volume and then turn to my make-up kit. You've commented more than once on your dislike of heavy make-up. Fortunately I rarely wear much. I've already lost the little bit of color I gained during the summer so I brighten up my cheeks with a touch of peach and rose. I stick to the natural palette for my eyes as well, using just a tad more shadow and mascara than normal. It's 8:12 according to my phone when I swipe on some lip gloss, fluff my hair one more time, shrug into my coat and head out.

I'm a few minutes early to the coffee shop which is good because there is a long line. I'm lucky and snag a table with two chairs on the patio. I drape my coat over one and join the line. It occurs to me that I have no idea what to order for you.

_Getting drinks. How do you like your coffee?_

_Hot._

_Duh. Anything else?_

_Black Drip. None of your fancy skinny, skim, mega tall, Seattle foo foo coffee, please._

_You live here now. Don't say that too loud. Your body will wind up in a dumpster behind a Starbucks store._

_Thanks for the warning. ;)_

It's my turn to order. I get my usual grande mocha with whole milk and your boring drip coffee plus two breakfast sandwiches and a blueberry scone to share. I sit outside facing the lake, sip from my steaming mug and watch the sidewalks and pathways for you and Barkley.

My phone buzzes. _Almost there._

I sit up straight, eyes scanning rapidly back and forth. Most people are clustered in twos and threes. I dismiss them and the joggers but there are a surprising number of people out walking their dogs this morning.

The sun is reflecting off Green Lake in a shimmering sheet of white and gold. I am hit by a wave of déjà vu when I finally see you. I can't make out your face yet, but I know it's you. I recognize the over-eager black lab puppy straining at the leash, almost pulling his owner along the path. It was _you_ that I saw on Monday morning walking around the lake. You're wearing the same gray beanie.

As you get closer I set my mug down. You look taller than I expected. You are wearing a black long-sleeve Henley and light wash jeans. Your body has the long, lean-muscled look of a life-long runner. As you get closer I can make out your features. You are searching the crowded coffee shop for me.

Our eyes meet.

Everything else disappears. Every part of me is focused on you. I retain the faintest sense of sound and movement around me, just enough for me to maintain a connection to my body. And you smile. I feel my heart contract painfully as if my blood is boiling in my veins. Heat rises inexorably until my face flames and my breath comes in frantic, shallow gasps.

I see you call Barkley to heel and then you are crossing the street toward me. I am petrified. Mesmerized. Terrified and exhilarated.

You wrap Barkley's leash around the fence that marks the dining area's boundary, drop a rawhide bone for him to gnaw on, and step around the fence to join me. I look up, up, up as you get closer. You are so tall and your eyes have me completely entranced. And your mouth. . . Please don't think I'm an idiot, but I am completely speechless.

"You left these in my office," you say, leaning across the table and dropping a scrap of fabric into my lap.

I return to myself with an almost painful snap, like a rubber band stretched to its limit and suddenly released. I grab the panties and self-consciously stuff them into my purse. We have an audience. Well, if this is your idea of payback for last night, you're in for a surprise. I shrug as casually as I can under the circumstances.

"I didn't forget them. I was waiting for your feedback. Do you prefer the full bottomed panties or should I wear a thong next time?"

Your jaw is clenched tight and your eyes are burning into me. "Neither."

"Well that simplifies life. Thanks. Your coffee's getting cold."

You settle into the chair opposite from mine with an ironic chuckle. "You never cease to amaze me. I thought you were going to melt right into the pavement for a second there and now you're all brass and bullets."

"Don't stroke your own ego. It's not becoming."

"Can you stroke it for me?"

"Do you see this exaggerated eye roll? Yeah? That's all you're going to get. Now eat your breakfast so I can go say hi to Barkley."

We are both laughing now. The people around us are finally getting over the urge to eavesdrop and returning to their own conversations. But I don't miss the sidelong glances you continue to receive from most of the women and quite a few of the men. They can look all they like. It's obvious that you only have eyes for me. I choose to shrug off the last of my fears and misgivings. You are here in front of me. Close enough to touch. . . and it feels absolutely perfect.

* * *

_A/N: I'm curious. Am I the only one? Who else has a pair of ultra-sexy underwear that are so uncomfortable they have never actually worn them? I swear, some of them are made to be put on, then taken straight off. They sure as heck aren't designed for all-day wear!_


	6. Chapter 6

There's a part of me that thinks this should be harder. We shouldn't settle so seamlessly into each other's physical lives.

I fell in love with your words before I ever saw your face. I was enchanted by your smile before I ever heard your voice. And now we are walking Barkley through the park together as if we've been a couple forever instead of meeting for the first time only 40 minutes ago.

You squeeze my hand gently and I look up at you. You grin and pull me a little closer. I smile back, the undiluted bliss I feel shining from my eyes.

I have to take three steps for every two of yours. You slow your pace a bit to match mine but Barkley yanks frantically at his leash trying to catch the dog walking ahead of us. I love him already. He is so joyful and unrestrained. Watching him bound back and forth in front of us makes me giggle.

You tell me about your house and it sounds gorgeous. I love the houses around here with their quaint floor plans, stepped yards and gabled roofs. You outline your plans to renovate it and the ideas you are kicking around for landscaping. You ask for my input and I balk.

"Come on, Bella. You don't have to move in with me unless you want to, but I value your opinion all the same. I plan to spend a lot of time with you and I want you to be comfortable in my home."

"Life on fast-forward. Wow. Of course, I would be comfortable in a trailer if it was yours."

"I wouldn't. We need solid walls. Earthquake proof. Or else the whole thing might collapse around us."

Your cheesy eyebrow wiggle has me doubled over with laughter.

"Fine. I'll come over and give you my not-so-expert opinion."

"Excellent. By the way, where do you live anyway? You seem to know this area pretty well."

I turn and point back the way we came. "Do you see that brick apartment building with the French balconies and gray roof?"

"Yeah."

"That's me."

"Holy shit. We've been less than half a mile away from each other since I moved in."

"Holy shit is right. You didn't plan this?"

"No. I just fell in love with the neighborhood and bought the first fixer-upper than came on the market."

"The universe moves in mysterious ways," I muse with a mock serious tone.

"Yeah. You can say that again. Oh. . . Great. Hmmm. Do you want to do the honors?" You are holding out a small black plastic bag.

"He's a dog, not royalty. I don't think there's any honor in scooping his poop. You bought him, you clean up after him."

"That's cold. I'm offering to share every part of my life with you and you're turning your nose up at it."

"Well yeah. It stinks." We watch awkwardly as Barkley rises from his crouch and sniffs curiously at the pile he deposited beside the path. You flick his leash when he looks like he's going to do more than sniff at it. I hold him back dutifully while you collect the poop and jog over to the nearest garbage bin to dispose of it. I fight to control my gag reflex. It takes a special kind of human to walk openly and shamelessly around carrying a bag of excrement.

I'm not that special.

* * *

I rarely walk the entire circumference of the lake. It's a little less than three miles which is no big deal, except when you desperately need to pee. You keep darting odd, questioning looks in my direction. Why, after everything we've talked about and shared, am I self-conscious about something as basically human as needing to urinate?

Walking at this pace is getting difficult by the time we reach our starting point. The natural thing to do would be to make plans to meet later for lunch, dinner or a movie. All I want to do is ditch you here, speed walk home and find relief from the mounting pressure in my bladder.

"Well, I better get home," I say, "and I'm sure Barkley is tired from all this walking." Barkley chooses this moment to lunge at a passing dog exhibiting just how much energy he has in reserve. He's as full of curiosity and playful spirits as he was an hour ago.

"Are you trying to get away from me?"

"What? No! I just thought. . ."

"Why don't you come back with me? I can get Barkley some water and let him run around the back yard while I give you a tour of the house. Then maybe we can grab a light lunch and a matinee." Your plan would be perfect except for one problem. I can't even stand still. I need to pee so badly that I know I won't last walking another half mile. I throw a desperate look over my shoulder at my building. It's so close! But if we stop there first you will see how pathetically small and cheap my place is compared to what you're used to. And I'll have to use the bathroom with you listening from the next room.

"Look, Edward, I really need to stop at my apartment first. Can you just text me your address and I'll head over there in a bit. I can pick you up at 11 and we can have lunch out by Lake Union. There's a delicious seafood and chowder restaurant there."

"Duke's? I love that place! But there's one just a few blocks from here. In fact, that's a great idea. We can walk there from my house and then we don't have to worry about parking. Come on." You take three steps before you realize I'm not coming with you. I'm panicking. "Bella? What's the matter?"

With tears in my eyes I whisper, "Wait! I need to pee. Like, right now!"

Your laugh isn't mocking or condescending but I am mortified all the same. "Well, then we'll take a detour to your apartment and you can show me your place first."

You set off up the hill to my building and I scramble to catch up. This is not what I had in mind. I imagined that your first visit to my apartment would involve wine, candles and lingerie. Not me mincing my steps to maintain control and all sweaty from our long walk. You're commenting on something you saw in a store window and I can't even process the words. I am developing tunnel vision. All I can think about is unlocking the door and getting to the bathroom as quickly as possible. My hand is inside my purse clutching my keys desperately.

We reach the front door and I let us into the lobby. I can't possibly climb four flights of stairs right now, but waiting for the elevator is pure torture. You're looking at me quizzically. I'm staring at the numbers above the elevator. I dart in when the door opens and punch the button for my floor three times in rapid succession. Barkley doesn't know what to make of the elevator. I know he's been neutered but that doesn't stop him from urinating in the corner to mark it as his.

You groan and I laugh in choking disbelief. "I am definitely not responsible for that."

"Bad, dog. Barkley, that was bad." He looks at you with those adorable brown eyes and wags his tail proudly. I am so jealous. My bladder is seconds away from rupturing. I wish I could do that. Animals have no shame.

My walk is a fair imitation of a duck's waddle by the time we get out on the fourth floor. I unlock the door with shaking hands. "Cleaner is under the kitchen sink. Towels are in the hall closet. Don't let him eat my couch!"

I can't even breathe any more by the time I shut myself into the bathroom. I flip up the lid. When I try to unzip my jeans the g'damn zipper snags. I yank it down viciously, bending several of the teeth in the process. Oh well. Pulling down skinny jeans when you are sweaty and about to lose bladder control is a herculean feat. I barely make it.

The relief is so profound that I no longer care that you are in the very next room. When I'm done I sag back against the tank and take several deep breaths. I really hope Barkley isn't destroying my potted fern. My aunt gave it to me.

When I finally stand up I see my reflection over the bathroom sink. My hair has lost its stylish wave and hangs in stringy strands. My face is flushed and blotchy from stress and exertion. I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, run a brush through my hair and do my best to touch up my make-up. I'm going to have to change my jeans. These are going in the trash.

I hear nothing but silence in the main room. You must be dealing with the mess in the elevator. With my jeans held shut I run across to my bedroom and start digging through my clothes. The jeans most like this pair are in the dirty laundry. I doubt they are too bad. I kick off my boots, peel off my ruined pants and try the other pair only to realize there is a brown stain on the left thigh. I must have dripped sauce on them at lunch yesterday.

I have a pair of lighter jeans that I love but I'm afraid it would look too monochromatic with this sweater. I decide to change completely. I am standing in front of my closet in just my camisole and underwear when my door bursts open. The latch has been broken since I moved in but it was never a problem until today.

"Barkley, get back here!" You dive through the doorway after Barkley's loose leash and freeze.

"Oh, um, my zipper broke so I had to change. . ."

I watch your face as it transforms from irritation to shell-shocked surprise. "Sorry. I. . . I mean. . . I'll be right out here, I mean out there. . . whenever you're ready." You back out of the room pulling a contrite puppy with you and shut the door behind you. I don't think your eyes ever made it up to my face.

I guess you aren't as suave and self-assured as you make yourself out to be. I'm turned on when you take the lead and tease me like you did earlier at the coffee shop. But I am also strangely aroused by your embarrassed, stuttering reaction just now. It makes me feel more confident. Sexy. Desirable. Even powerful.

* * *

Once I'm dressed we leave for your place. You are quiet as we walk to your house. I'm holding Barkley's leash and your hands are in your pockets. I snap the leash occasionally to keep Barkley from exploring the lawns and flowerbeds of the houses we pass.

"Dollar for your thoughts?"

"Hah. They aren't worth that much."

"That's fine. Tell me anyway."

"I. . . It's just. . . Back there I realized something." Your voice drifts off into pensive silence.

"Annnddd?"

"I want you." I flush with pleasure at your candid confession. But I fail to see how this is a new revelation. "I've wanted you, or at least the idea of you, since the very beginning. But being with you today, it's so much more." You come to a stop and scrape your fingers through your hair in frustration. I turn to look at you. Your face is contorting as you struggle to find the right words. "I feel like I've been unfair to you. Objectifying you the way I have. The things I'm feeling with you here next to me are so much more powerful and complex than I could have ever anticipated. I just. . . I just don't want to screw up by moving too quickly. But I don't know how to take it slow when I want you so desperately."

I am being sucked in by a pull so powerful and intense that it feels magnetic. I step into your shadow, dwarfed by your height and the energy that courses between us. My hand finds yours and I wordlessly bring it to my lips, kissing your knuckles and then holding our clasped hands to my heart. "I don't think I can take it slow either. You already own me heart, mind, body and soul. There's no going back. And even if it were possible, I wouldn't want to."

Your eyes are locked on mine, searching for something more than just words. Evidently you find it, because your face is dipping to meet mine and are lips are joined. I feel. . . complete. . . for the first time in my life, savoring the softness of your mouth against mine. Moving gently. Coaxing. Promising. Your arms encircle me, one hand against my hip and the other cupping my neck, fingers in hair, tangled, pulling me closer. Closer. Out of breath and soaring. I smile against your mouth, exalted by the simplicity and the beauty. We both step back then. Just a few inches. I see you are smiling too.

Barkley is pulling against his leash, tired of waiting for us. "Settle down, Barkley. We're coming." I link my arm with yours as we resume our walk. Sharing the air with you, tasting you on my lips, I know we are right.

My right shoulder is getting sore from holding Barkley back. He's incredibly strong for being so young. I pass the leash off to you and dig into my purse. You blink and laugh when I hand you a crumpled ten dollar bill.

"What's this for?"

"That was worth so much more than a dollar."

"Right. I wish all my thoughts were that valuable." You shove the bill into your wallet and return it to your back pocket.

"I'll stop by the ATM after lunch."

"Why don't we just agree to a barter exchange?"

"Because you would probably run away if I told you half of what goes through my mind."

"Hah! I knew you censored yourself. That's okay. I find it very entertaining to peel back the layers." And there you go again with the silly eyebrow wiggle. You do a lot of looks well – Sexy, brooding, smoldering, cheerful, conflicted. . . but leering is not your thing.

"I prefer to think before I speak. If I didn't I would get into trouble all the time at work. Gary is not the most tolerant individual."

You sling your arm over my shoulder and draw me closer. You smell like masculine exertion. Normally that would gross me out but I find the complexity of your scent tantalizing. It's both musky and sweet. I put my arm around your waist and hook my thumb into the belt loop of your jeans.

"See, that's another way we are different. I have to be so careful and controlled every day at work. Every word or gesture is calculated and measured. That's why when I'm with you I want to drop all the restrictions and let loose with my thoughts and feelings."

"So work constipates you and I'm an emotional laxative?" I give you an indignant look but I'm only joking. It's hard to stay serious with you for long.

"You and your analogies. But yeah, sure. Something like that. You make me free and easy."

"Oh my gosh, that could totally be the new tag line for Ex-Lax."

"What can I say? I'm a creative marketing genius. Ah, here we are."

You guide me up the walkway to a small two-story house. It has a narrow driveway leading to a separate garage. The yard is neat and well-maintained but lacks any sort of distinctive character. I wonder how it will look in the spring. The house itself needs fresh paint but I love the wide windows, steeply pitched roof, carved wood accents and the small balcony on the south side of the second floor. Barkley is happy to be home, sniffing around the postage-stamp lawn and peeing on a miserable looking rose bush.

You usher me inside and take the puppy straight to the back yard where he laps thirstily from his stainless steel water bowl. We both wash our hands at the kitchen sink, and then you take my coat and purse, hang them over a dining room chair and give me the grand tour.

So far, you've renovated the kitchen and one bathroom. I'm impressed by your style and taste but you give all the credit to your mom. She sounds wonderful when you describe her to me. I'm not close to my own mother so I am always intrigued by relationships like yours. I run my fingers along the beveled edge of the black quartzite counter in the downstairs bathroom. The front entryway is still cracked linoleum and stained white walls. This tiny space feels like an oasis of luxury.

"Why are you renovating just one room at a time? Why don't you have a crew come in and do everything at once?"

"This wasn't really the plan. The contractor my mom hired for me had an accident and has been laid up for the last month and a half. He does beautiful work and I'm not it a huge hurry, so it can wait until he's able to move forward."

"What happened?"

You scratch your neck sheepishly. "Well, his brother was running late one day and I offered to help him unload some materials from his truck. I kind of slipped and we dropped the cabinets for the master bathroom on his foot. So, yeah. His foot is broken and he's going to be in a cast for another two weeks. The least I could do was pay him to finish the job when he's better."

"That is terrible! You probably feel like a complete jerk."

"Yeah. Thanks. Not helping."

I giggle helplessly when you blush. It's cute seeing you like this. I find it easy to forget that we are as old as we are. I feel like a teenager again.

"So. Tell me what else you have in mind." You show me the updated blueprints where walls have been moved or taken out altogether to open up the downstairs floor plan. A folding table in the corner holds stacks of tiles, carpet samples and paint colors. I am starting to be able see past the damage and neglect to visualize the way it will be. Your excitement is contagious and I find myself offering input and opinions that I didn't even know I had.

The upstairs shows less damage than the main floor, but the carpet is old, stained and worn. The bedrooms are empty except for the master bedroom. You have an inflatable mattress on the floor - a direct contradiction to the finely tailored suits and shirts hanging in the closet. I softly stroke the burgundy and gray tie that hangs from the closet door. The silk is woven into an intricate design that catches and tricks the eye. I don't recognize the designer's name but it is obviously expensive.

You beckon me out onto the balcony. "Don't lean on the railing. I'm pretty sure half the posts are rotted clear through, but I love coming out here in the morning with my coffee and a book. With the sun coming up and the sounds of cars and busses taking people about their business, it makes me feel connected to the city in a way I never could in my condo back in Chicago."

I take in the view of the back yard where Barkley is gnawing on a red rubber toy, the neighbor's house which is painted egg shell white with blue trim, and the sea of trees and roof tops. It is pretty. The noise of traffic is there but not overwhelming. I think I know what you mean.

I sit back in your chair and pick up the book you left on the small round table. Ugh. Options trading. My brain has a miniature seizure so I put it down. "We need another chair out here for me. And a book that's actually fun to read."

"Do you want your own coffee cup and a towel in the bathroom?"

"If you're offering. Yeah."

Your eyes are dark and your expression is hard to read in the shadow of the eaves. I watch you lick your lips. "We should get lunch. All that walking made me hungry."

Why do you sound like you are hoping I will object? The air is still brisk but there is a heavy, sultry feeling of expectancy between us. I'm not especially hungry myself, but I can see the wisdom of getting lunch now. When we come back here I don't think we'll be eating again for a very long time.

* * *

_A/N: Last time I was at Green Lake a bunch of guys gathered in an impromptu drum circle under a tree. It was incredibly cool to be on the opposite side of the lake and hear the intricate rhythms echoing through the park. And it was surprising how many people automatically walked and jogged in time to the beat. Any other Seattle natives out there?  
_


	7. Chapter 7

Barkley is taking a nap in his kennel and we are sitting in a small wooden booth at Duke's Chowder House sharing a bottle of chardonnay, a basket of steaming sourdough rolls and bowls of creamy chowder. I take small bites, eating slowly and savoring this experience. The robust blend of clams with tarragon, thyme, parsley and marjoram is offset by the dry white wine and the sharp tang of the bread.

I'm not especially hungry, but I can't get enough of you. It's like I've been starving for years and now I am devouring the details that until now have only been supplied by imagination. I am entranced by the play of light and shadow across your features. I watch your fingers, slender but strong, as you carefully shred the bread, drop it into your bowl and spoon each mouthful to your lips.

During our walk we never stopped talking. Now, we chat in a leisurely, free-flowing manner between sips and bites. Our conversation follows a spiraling path, drawing closer to more personal details, things neither of us felt comfortable enough to share before. I tell you about my parents' divorce and my experiences growing up with a single dad who was also a police officer. His work was demanding so I was often alone. My mother, flighty and irresponsible, was not somebody I ever related to.

You tell me about your sister, Rosalie, your brother-in-law and their family. You have four adopted nieces and nephews so holidays are a cheerful blend of happiness and chaos. You tell me more about your parents. Your father was a small-town doctor until your teenage years when they moved to Chicago. That's where your mother started the small interior design company which she still manages today.

I love the way your lip twitches on the brink of a smile when you talk about your family. The anecdotes you share paint a picture of domestic happiness that I cannot relate to. Teasing, openness, shared secrets and colorful memories – things I just didn't have. My feelings toward my own family waffle between wistfulness and ambivalence.

Our waiter clears away our empty bowls. I've switched to water and you are finishing the last of the Chardonnay. There is a pleasant sensation of fullness in my belly and muzziness in my head. I feel safe enough, comfortable enough, to be brave. I ask the question that I haven't dared to ask since the first message you sent. "I have to know. . . What were you doing there? Why did you, of all people, turn to an online dating site?"

"That's a more complicated question than I think I can answer with just words, partly because I don't entirely know why myself. Why did you?"

"That's not fair. I asked first."

"Perhaps your answer can help me formulate a proper response."

"Well you already know. I told you about Jake in one of my first e-mails."

"Yes, I remember. You played the jilted lover to his bone-headed jerk stereotype. But that doesn't tell either of us why you chose to try online dating. You could have taken any number of other paths. Stalk him, get a 'woman power' tattoo, swear off men and get a cat, swear off men and get a girlfriend, dust yourself off and choose to play the field, go it alone for a while, build a chain of rebound relationships or one-night-stands. . . really there are countless of ways you could have reacted. Why did you choose that one?"

"Huh. I don't really know. I guess I wanted to test the waters but still be in control. Hold the world at arm's length until I felt it was safe to let somebody else in. Until - "

"Until they could earn your trust. Right?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Your reason was a lot more altruistic than mine. I was hoping for inspiration to hit me so I wouldn't sound so sordid, but I just wanted pussy."

"What! Are you serious?"

"At the beginning, yes. Don't look at me like that. I am a man. Before we met, I was checking off the boxes to follow the perfectly coordinated life path I had paved for myself. I had a beautiful girlfriend, solid career, a condo in one of the nicer buildings in town, I had just bought my dream car. . . and she left me for a major league ball player. He was richer, hotter, had a more expensive car and all the prestige that goes with being famous. I was angry. Actually I was livid. I wanted to be the hotshot that beautiful women fawned over. I wanted other women to leave their men for _me_. I was a conceited, self-centered asshole."

"So. . . when you told me you thought you found what you were looking for. . ." My mind is racing. I feel set up. Embarrassed. Ashamed. _What the fuck?_

"You changed my mind. Isabella, when I saw your face, gorgeous but unassuming, laughing in such a carefree, innocent way. . . well, I realized that I was a complete idiot. I was hurt so I felt entitled to hurt others to make myself feel better. I knew the moment that I saw you I was only deluding myself. If I had actually gone through with my plan, finding and seducing all those women to build myself back up, I would be nothing more than a leech. Taking but never giving anything in return. I would be far worse than Tanya. She never cheated on me. She just found a greener pasture, said good-bye and climbed the fence. I knew what she was after when she first introduced herself to me. I was just too shallow and self-centered to realize I was nowhere close to the biggest fish in her pond. She would have left me sooner or later. I'm glad she left when she did. I never would have met you otherwise."

"So you never. . ." Do I want the truth? Or do I want you to placate my nerves?

"No. Never. I created my account that morning. Your profile was the third one I viewed. You're the only one I tried to contact. It's been you, only you, since the moment I laid eyes on your perfect face."

"You know you're full of shit, right?"

"Oh yeah. Absolutely. Up to my eyes. But that doesn't change the fact you are the most beautiful, purest creature I've ever met."

I am experiencing a tumult of emotions. You've been this ideal man in my mind all these years. When I decided earlier this week that I wanted to separate reality from fantasy and get to know the real you, I didn't believe you had any flaws. I'm trying to wrap my head around this revelation. Your confession of human emotions like hurt, jealousy, insecurity and selfishness are turning my image of you inside out and upside down. You are watching me as I wrestle with my rampaging emotions. Your face is frank and open. I believe you when you say you never picked up any other girls. In this moment I acknowledge a powerful truth - I do trust you.

I decide to share my thoughts, open and unvarnished. So far telling the truth has led me right with you. "Edward, I don't think I'm ugly, but I also know I'm nothing special. Please don't make me out to be some paragon of perfection. And don't think I didn't have selfish motives when I joined that site. I can see how you ended up online with that goal and expectation. I can even relate. A little bit. Maybe I wasn't as jaded as you, but I certainly wasn't looking to make somebody else's day. I was there to make myself feel better after being dumped, same as you."

"I guess every single person who is looking for a partner is being selfish. The key is accepting that you are _selfishly_ looking for the person who makes you want to be completely _selfless_. It's part of being human. When I saw you, I knew that I wanted you but I didn't want it to be only about me. That's one of the reasons why I never pushed for more than you were willing to give."

"Until Monday."

"Well yeah. Until Monday. That's when I realized that you were about to give up on us. I decided not to take the lead or made any demands from the very beginning. I was afraid that I would fall back into my previous mindset. I never wanted to hurt, control or manipulate you. And then when we Skyped I could see it in your eyes, in the way you held yourself. I could hear it in the way you spoke and in the things you didn't say. You were done. You'd made your decision to end everything. Ironically, when I saw you there on my screen, I was two heartbeats away from asking you to marry me. I mean. . . Damn. That's not really how I meant to say that."

The rapid flow of your words comes to an abrupt halt. Surprisingly, I am not shocked or uncomfortable. If anything it feels like the natural progression. Jumbled up and completely out of order, maybe, but that's just how we are. Now that I have you in my life I can't imagine ever saying good bye. "That's okay. I think we both know where this is going. You can get down on one knee with an insanely huge rock any time the mood strikes."

"Well aren't you romantic." Your laugh is unrestrained and infectious. "I guess we all subconsciously know that we need somebody else in our life to make us whole. I was half a man until I met you. Everything about me is better for having known you. Just ask my family. They noticed a change instantaneously. They've been pestering me to introduce them to my mystery girl since Christmas almost three years ago. I couldn't really tell them that they couldn't see you until after I did. Now, I can't wait to take you home to meet them. My mother is going to adore you."

"Whoa. Slow down. We aren't doing the 'meet the parents' thing until after I tell my dad. He's already going to give you the 10th degree. He's a cop. He owns a gun. And you're only like six years younger than him so he's going to be extra hard on you. He still won't talk to Jake's family and he used to be best friends with his dad."

"Don't worry. He's going to love me. Now stop trying to make me feel old. I'm not. I'll prove it to you if you want."

I meet your cocky grin with a blank face. You have no clue what you're getting yourself into. You've never met Charlie Swan. Charlie did not take my break up with Jake well at all. I think he was hoping I would be married and settled down with kids long before he planned to retire. My heartbreak really threw a wrench in his plans. Once bitten, twice shy. He's going to be very cautious about trusting another guy, even if I'm madly in love with him. I guess breaking the news to my dad will be my number one task next Wednesday. Maybe I can drown his concerns and objections with turkey and gravy. Actually, I should plan on pie, too. Just to be on the safe side.

You fidget with your napkin, rolling and unrolling one corner. "Tell me the truth. How angry are you?"

"I'm not angry. I mean, maybe I was a little bit at first. Plus, you should have seen the expression on our waiter's face when you said 'pussy'. He was just coming over to refill our waters and he did an about face and disappeared."

"Sorry. I'm comfortable with you. Sometimes I forget myself. I lose track of where I am."

"You mean like Tuesday evening? What happened with that anyway? Who was coming into the office so late?"

"Oh geez. Yeah, that was a close call. Ms. Lopez, our receptionist, likes to make a big deal out of everyone's birthdays. She comes in early or stays late the day before to decorate the birthday person's desk with balloons, streamers and a gift from the company. Usually a tin of cookies or chocolates and movie passes or a gift card. She's the nurturing type. Always tries to make us eat more at company lunches. Plus I think she secretly likes spending money from the petty cash fund. Anyway, she had to leave early on Tuesday for a doctor's appointment and she came back in to set up the surprise for Brad, our real estate portfolio manager. He's 59 years old and hates his birthday. He was gritting his teeth through the entire birthday song. Poor guy."

"I don't blame him. I've always hated celebrating my birthday. She didn't see anything, did she?"

"No. Fortunately I had my music turned down so I heard the elevator chime when it reached our floor. I have a feeling she knew anyway, though."

"What? How?"

"Well, she stopped in to say hi and asked if I needed the thermostat adjusted because I looked a bit flushed. She scanned the whole room with her eyes and then she said goodnight and left. But, I don't know, there was just something about her expression that made me think she knew something was going on. She's got a sixth sense for gossip worthy material."

"And is your love life considered gossip worthy?"

"Oh please, as if you have to ask. I'm the next best thing to tabloid fodder. I swear there's an office pool betting on whether I'm gay or not because I haven't succumbed to Jessica Stanley's advances. She's the building manager. For some reason she's the only one I've ever met who thinks it's necessary to meet her tenants in person on a monthly basis to 'nurture relationships'. Every other property manager I've worked with meets to work out the lease and then disappears for five years."

"How much Chapstick does she go through?"

"Bella, I'm scandalized. Was that a dirty joke?"

"Well, if she's making the rounds, I would expect it to take its toll. Regular application of a moisturizer or lubricant would be a wise move. So, how have you managed to avoid her clutches?"

"I have my assistant, Mike, handle most of the business management concerns so I can dedicate more time to client relations and oversight of portfolio performance. He seems content for now and she gets lunch on my dime once a month."

"You're a kind and generous boss."

"Damn right I am."

"You could teach Gary a thing or two. He's the worst kind of micro-manager."

"What's his latest obsession?"

"Oh, you know, it always comes down to money. He thinks we can magically double our drink sales for the year by inviting companies to have their holiday parties at our restaurants. We see a big boost at this time every year, but he has seriously outlandish expectations."

"Do you guys cater events?"

"A couple of the restaurants do. _Rachelle's_, the bistro, maybe _Liza Rose_, that's our steak house. And you've seen the desserts at _Giatorre's_. They do special orders, breakfast and lunch buffets and box lunches. Why?"

"Well, if they cater and can man a hosted bar, we have several client appreciation events, our holiday party and our New Years fundraiser for Children's Hospital all coming up in the next three to four months. I'll have to check with Ms. Lopez, but I don't think any of the catering contracts are finalized yet. I've heard you talk about the various restaurants he owns and you obviously feel the food is good quality. So, if you could use the business I'm happy to give it to you."

"I don't know what to say. That would be amazing. Why don't you call me at work on Monday, like a real business call, and tell me exactly what you are looking for. If we can compete for the business, that would be awesome. And thanks. But I'm curious. What is this all going to cost me?"

"That's easy. You're going to be my date to my company holiday party. All the execs are flying in from Chicago and I want to be the one with the hottest trophy girlfriend."

I flick a chunk of roll at you. "Chauvinist."

"Hey, I just called you hot."

"And you called me a trophy."

"You know I was teasing you. But seriously, I would be absolutely honored if you would be my date to our holiday party. And, incidentally, every other event I am ever invited to."

Your eyes are alight with playfulness and a seductive, smoldering heat. I can't speak, but your mouth breaks into a glorious smile all the same. I think it's obvious what my answer is.

The spell is broken when our waiter approaches hesitantly with the check in a small black folder. You slip a few bills into the folder and hand it back. I think I recognize the crumpled ten I gave you earlier in the stack. We finish our last sips of wine and water and begin the walk back to your house.

It's only a few blocks, but clouds are skudding across the sky and it is noticeably colder even though it is only 2:00 in the afternoon. I hold your hand as we walk, reveling in the feeling of closeness that has only grown stronger since I first saw you this morning. You brush the pad of your thumb gently across my knuckles and I look up at you and smile. I am more in love with you than ever. And the best part is I know it's you that I love, not just the fantasy.


	8. Chapter 8

Another big thank you to Tarbecca and all the other wonderful gals at ADF! Thanks for rec'ing/reading/reviewing!

* * *

Before I know it we are strolling up the walkway to your house. This is it. It's Saturday afternoon, and neither of us have anywhere to be until Monday. My steps slow and you gently pull me around to face you. Your hands frame my face, soft and cool against my feverish skin. From this close I can see every shade of color in your eyes. Your irises are outlined by a ring of gray-green as dark as the Pacific Ocean on a stormy evening. The ring lightens to blend with mossy shadows, golden flecks and emerald highlights. The shifting stellate pattern traps and mesmerizes me. Hypnotized, my eyes flutter closed. I feel your lips brush mine, feather soft and sweet. I push up on my toes to deepen our contact. I am no longer conscious of my feet, sore from walking, or my fingers, stiff with cold.

I want to breathe in your essence. I want to consume and be consumed. I feel your tongue stroke gently against my mouth and I part my lips to beckon you in. Slow and sensual, your tongue twines with mine, exploring the myriad points of pleasure that radiate from every nerve. I am so sensitive that every movement stimulates me. Every time your skin brushes against mine new paths of pleasure are burned through the channels of my brain.

A feeling of urgency is taking over. All these months, the distance between us has served as a dam, trapping the desire within us behind a rigid barrier. But those walls have been breached. Massive cracks are spreading, fracturing my self-control. I cannot contain the accumulated pressure.

We pull apart long enough for you to unlock the front door. My cheeks are ablaze and my pulse is hammering in my ears like a bass drum. You take me by the hand and pull me inside. I drop my purse and shed my coat. We are kissing again, more frantic than before. Your hands are constantly moving, first running over my shoulders and down my arms, and then pulling me closer until my body is pressed so tightly against yours I can feel the desperate pounding of your heart. I am on fire. I want to tear off my clothes and feel every inch of your hardened muscles and rigid flesh against me. Inside me.

We are moaning, whispering unintelligible words and fragments of thoughts. "I love you. . . want you. . . please. . . so much. . . more. . . yes. . . yes. . . _yes_. . ." I immerse myself in sensation. The sound, the feel, the taste of you. It's too much, and yet and I am insatiable. Give me more.

And then your tone changes. "Please. Tell me to stop. Make me slow down."

"No."

"I don't think I can be gentle. I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

"I trust you."

With an anguish cry you pick me up and spin me around. I cling to you with arms and legs wrapped vice-like around your shoulders and hips. The carved wood of the door is hard against my back but I feel no pain. Only pressure. An urgent, bursting need to dive off this cliff and drown in you. You pin me against the door, grinding and cursing and kissing my mouth, my throat, my chest. I tilt my head back and hold your face against my breasts. Suck me, bite me, mark me. Make me yours.

You bring your mouth back to mine, lips wet and swollen. The air around us is sultry and heavy with the scent of lust. I feel your arms relax slightly, lowering me until I feel the hard length of you pressed against my center, rubbing and grinding out a desperate plea. Yes, I say with my mouth. Yes, with my entire being.

"Wait here," you say and reluctantly lower me to the floor. I lean back as the room tips and whirls around me. I no longer know which way is up. I trust the cold hardness of the wood at my back and press my hands, palms flat, against it.

I am dazed, watching you walk away from me. I hear the back door open and you calling to Barkley. The rattle of a bag and kibbles falling into a plastic bowl. Then there is the sound of water running and the metallic splash as you refill his water. You're ensuring we have no interruptions. No other obligations to pull us away.

I am no longer gasping for air, but my insides feel like liquid heat, a pool of magma searching for a vent to burst forth in a shower of superheated sparks. An incessant buzzing, like a mosquito on the prowl, creeps between my thoughts of you. I want it to stop. I don't want anything or anyone to disrupt the spell we've cast between us.

As much as I try to block it out, the buzzing continues. Who the fuck is calling me? Don't they know that my greatest dream, the most profound experience of my life is happening right now?

With muttered curses I search for my blasted phone. My heart sinks like a lump of lead. Gary. Why in the name of all that is holy is he calling me? I answer with every intention of getting rid of him before you come back inside.

"Hey, Gary. Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? _Wrong_? That has got to be the most absurd understatement of the century! I just got a call from Jimmy over at _Liza Rose_. I warned you that if this ever happened again you would be forcing me to seriously question your value to the organization."

"What? What happened?"

"No toilet paper, no paper towels, no tissues. What, should my customers wipe their asses with newspapers or their $200 receipts? No. _Fuck no!_ Now you get to the office, take the debit card, and pick up supplies for each and every restaurant. You broke it, you fix it, missy!"

"Wait a minute, Gary. I don't know what's going on, but the paper goods order was submitted on time. I saved the confirmation page, just like always."

"Is it my job to know what's going on with the fucking toilet paper? No! Keeping the restaurants stocked is your job. Now get over here immediately and fix this. Dinner hours start in less than two hours." _Click_.

My mouth is working soundlessly. I can't even. . . How am I. . .Awww, fuck.

_Gary Flintoff, the cock-blocking boss from hell._

I look up and you are standing there looking hot, tense, sexier than any fantasy and obviously worried.

"I step away for five minutes and something goes wrong. What's up, love?"

"I hate my job."

"And?"

"The paper goods order never got delivered yesterday. Who knows what went wrong, but we've got seven restaurants that can't make it through tonight's dinner rush without a supply run. And apparently I'm the girl for the job. I'm so sorry. I have to go. I'm looking for another job, but until I find one this is it for me. I don't really have a choice. But I'll be back in less than three hours. I promise. You can come over to my place later and we can watch a movie or order take-out or something."

We both know what I mean by 'something'. A movie might be a great icebreaker after several hours apart. There is sure to be some awkwardness. And I noticed during our tour earlier that you have a serious lack of all things domestic; bed, furniture, television, stereo. You must not spend much time here.

"Yes to the second half of your offer, but why do you have to go alone? I can help. Many hands make light work, right?"

"You want to come with me?"

"Sure, and maybe I can subtly put your asshole of a boss in his place. Anyone who's ever filled a leadership role could point out a hundred things wrong with the way he's handling his business."

"Tell me something I don't know. Well, if you're sure, let's go get my truck."

"Time is money. I'll drive you."

I shrug my agreement. I just want to get this over with so I can get back to kissing and dry humping you. I'm too shameless to care how that sounds, even in my own head.

You lead me out a side door to the driveway I noted earlier. The back corner of the lot is occupied by a cute, unattached two-car garage. You punch in a code on a key pad and the double door rolls up. I almost lose my lunch. I identify your new car, a silver Volvo hatch-back. That's the one you deem muddy-footprint worthy. Its sticker price is probably twice my annual income. The other car, well, I don't even think I can call it a car. It's more of a futuristic-dark-blue-gray-metallic-alien-sports-coupe. I'm salivating, and I'm not even a car person.

You chuckle at my reaction and beckon me over with a nod of your head. I still haven't regained my equilibrium from our make-out session earlier. This makes me about as coordinated as Bambi on ice. Somehow I find my way to the door which you open for me. The inside is unlike any car I've ever been in. The black leather seat is molded to fit perfectly around my body. The dashboard is a maze of softly glowing lights and dials. The interior feels like a cocoon, tightly formed, protective, deadening all input from the outside world.

You help me buckle the racing-style seat belt and drop a quick kiss on my forehead. I'm too numbed by shock to respond except with an unintelligible grunt. That makes you laugh again, a free-flowing chuckle that reminds me of water tumbling over rounded river stones.

You shut my door, circle the car and lower your frame into the driver's seat. With both doors shut the sensation of being encapsulated in a cocoon is absolute. You don't insert and turn a key like the rest of us. This car requires an elaborate sequence of button-pushing and lever-flipping to ignite the engine. And, wow, what an engine. It doesn't roar or rumble like a muscle car. It hums. It purrs with the deep-throated sigh of a massive cat. A buzzing heat travels up my hamstrings, through my glutes and sets up a syncopated beat of throbbing and pulsing in between my thighs. I've never known what it was about powerful cars that turned women on. I get it now.

"You like it?"

I nod sharply. Words are still beyond me.

We pull out of the driveway and onto the street. We're so low to the ground that I feel like my ass is planted on the pavement. Each corner, I feel my body pressing slightly against the supportive seat but my movement is minimal. You drive fast. We're pulling into one of the guest stalls outside my apartment in under a minute. Not quite long enough for me to recover my senses.

"Here, let me give you a hand," you say when you pull me from the car. I don't let go. One of my neighbors, a twenty-something guy who is always tinkering with his motorcycle, lets out a low whistle. I catch his appreciative look with a startled glance of my own. I'm not the only one stunned by your car. That's encouraging.

You seem inordinately pleased with yourself as you lean back against the wall of the building, ankles crossed and hands in your pocket. "So, which truck is yours?"

I look around the parking lot. I never realized how many people in my building own trucks. I see a cute, red Ford Ranger, a newer model Toyota pick-up and the tail of a Chevy sticking out from behind a minivan. I walk to my old, rust-orange step-side truck and shove my key in the lock. Once inside I lean over and pull up the plastic knob to unlock the passenger side. My seats are cracked vinyl covered by an old beach towel. I tore out the threadbare carpets years ago and never replaced them so our feet rest on bare metal. It gets hot if you have your foot right over the exhaust line so I tend to keep my feet on the pedals or braced against the side. You wordlessly buckle your lap belt. The truck was made after seatbelts, but before shoulder belts. You can guess the year. I'm gratified by the fact that I have the power to render you dumb, too. I double-pump the clutch and crank the engine. It lets out a barking cough and rumbles to life. Reverse is a sticky one to get into, so I jam the stick hard into gear and back out of my stall.

"There's got to be a story here," you say, finally breaking the silence that has reigned for too long.

"Yeah. My dad bought this truck for me when I came to live with him during high school. I take care of it and it takes care of me. A few times a year I change the oil, I put gas in when it gets below half a tank, and that's it. We're a symbiotic pair."

"I can see that. It kind of makes me feel lame, though."

"Really? Why?"

"Well, if anything goes wrong with either of my cars, I call a tow truck, have it taken to the dealership, some kid with a computerized instruction manual tweaks the computer or replaces an unnamed gadget, I pay the bill and leave. I'm 100% dependent on a system of service providers and technology that I can't comprehend even on the most basic level. This is incredible. You're one of the strongest, most resourceful people I've ever met. I'm just. . . constantly impressed by you."

Who would have thought you, Edward Cullen, would be impressed by a plain-Jane girl in a rusty truck. My heart is soaring, bathing in the beauty of your words and admiration. Until we pull up in front of my office. Then my heart plummets into the sewer.

"Is this it?"

"Yep."

We both hop out and shut our doors. It takes you a couple tries. You obviously aren't accustomed to slamming two-hundred pounds of steel. Don't worry. You can't break it.

Gary is glaring at me when I come through the front door and then his eyes travel to you and his entire demeanor changes. I've seen this transformation a thousand times and it sickens me. The petty tyrant becomes the fawning sycophant.

"Bella, thank you so much for volunteering to come in on your day off. I'm so tired of these vendors who make mistakes and expect us to just roll with it. They have no idea what it means to run an efficient operation, do they? I think we're going to have to find a new supplier after this latest debacle. Thank you again. Really. You're such a life saver. I don't know what I would ever do without you! Here's the card, and don't worry about bringing it back tonight. Just give it to me when you come in on Monday."

"Sure Gary. No problem. By the way, this is my boyfriend, Edward. I told him about our big holiday push and he may want to schedule some events and catering with us throughout the season. If the price is right, of course." No sense in giving him money. He better earn it.

"Oh, really," he says, turning to you with a wide smile. "That's marvelous. We would be honored to host your events. How many people are we thinking of?"

"Oh, you know, an intimate gathering of about forty or fifty for the office party, but our Chicago Gala last January pulled in over 750, so who knows?"

I suppress a smile as I watch Gary choke on his own spit. Speechlessness seems to be the theme of the day.

In my truck on the way to the warehouse store you shock me again with an absolutely insane proposition.

"How would you feel about me buying Gary out?"

"Why the hell would you want to do that? You don't know the first thing about running a restaurant."

"Of course not. You would manage them for me."

"I manage a lot, sure. I know I'm indispensible to Gary. However, he isn't just a noisy bump on a log. He's got a reputation among the chef's and GMs in this city. He's got an uncanny knack for restaurant design, advertising, the whole package. He's successful for a reason. There's no way I could replace him even if I did find someone to train and replace me."

"Fine, I'll keep him on and pay him a salary. He won't lose anything in the deal except the ability to make your life miserable."

"Edward, I think it's really sweet that you're trying to protect me, but your plan would never work. You don't know Gary the way I do. His ego is so wrapped up in owning these restaurants that he would rather die than give them up, let alone engrave somebody else's name on the brass plaque above the door. No. It would never happen. And I honestly don't see anything positive about your swooping in with your mega-millions to buy me a position. I can find my own job. I've already decided it's time for me to move on to something else. If you really want to help, you can introduce me to a couple of your big wig friends at this gala you have coming up. But I draw the line at introductions. No bribery. No arm twisting. No black ops maneuvers."

You are watching me thoughtfully with the hint of a smirk dancing around the corners of your mouth.

"You, Ms. Swan, are a force to be reckoned with. And it's not mega-millions. Only a few. So far."

"Right. Thanks for clarifying. But I'm really nothing of the sort. I just have a strong moral objection to getting by on hand outs when I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"I don't doubt that you are."

"So. Do we have a deal?"

"Absolutely. No conspiring to make you more successful than you deserve to be."

You have an odd way of putting it, but I accept it as the closest thing to capitulation that I'm likely to receive.

We make short work of our trip through the store, piling bulk-packaged goods onto the flat-bed dolly. I'm grateful to have an extra set of hands for loading everything into the bed of my truck. And it saves both time and money to leave you out on the curb by the vehicle while I carry stacks of product into each restaurant. I save _Giatorre's_ for last, just in case Sally is working.

"Seriously? What happened this time?" Sally greets me as I shoulder my way through the door and helps me deposit the goods in the stock room.

"I have no idea, but it wasn't my fault. Since I'm here, though, can I get a couple more slices of that chocolate torte?"

"Sure. It's on me. But tell me, who's that super-model leaning against the side of your truck?"

"Oh, um. Him. . . that's Edward. He's sort of. . ."

"Gorgeous? Delicious? Hunky?"

"My boyfriend. Who says hunky these days? Did you trip and fall back into the eighties?"

"I think he knocked me back a few years. Yeah. Damn, I have a line forming. Here's your dessert, but you owe me an explanation, girl!" Sally is yelling after me as I grab the to-go box and run, giggling for the door. It feels good to laugh like this. Light, bubbly. You have your arms crossed and your eyebrows raised when I reach the truck. I shove the white box at you and clamber into my seat.

"Is this. . .?"

"Yep. Triple chocolate torte. 1200 calories of heaven per slice."

"I hope you have a plan to help me work this off. I'm not a young man anymore."

"And you told me you were going to prove that you weren't an _old_ man. I'm holding you to it."

"Wow. These look delicious. So, what was that about back there?"

"Oh, you have to excuse Sally. She's boisterous. And she thinks you're hunky."

"She does, does she? What do you think?"

"There are not enough words in the English language to tell you what I think. I'm just going to have to show you."

The floor panels are no longer the hottest thing in this truck. I think my face is. You bring out the brazen hussy in me.

"I'm looking forward to it." You reach across the space between us and run your hand up my right thigh from my knee to my hip. And then you pause. The tips of your fingers rest against the inner seam of my jeans sending a pulsating blast of desire through my core. I feel myself clench from my belly button to my knees. My leg jerks slightly and the engine surges in response. "Mmmm. Yeah. My thoughts exactly," you say with a satisfied smirk.

For the second time today I am dazed and speechless when I get to my apartment.

* * *

_Gary is pretty bad, but kids have got to be the most accomplished cock-blockers in the world! How the heck did I manage to have more than one, let alone four?!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! And thanks to everyone who has rec'd this story especially **Tarbecca** from ADF, **Sunflower Fran,** and **Nic** from The Lemonade Stand._

* * *

"Um, are you going to let us in?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry." Did I really space out in the hallway? I guess so. I unlock the door and let myself in with you following close behind. You look around curiously as if you weren't standing in this very room earlier today.

"So, do I get a tour?"

"Seriously?"

"Well, yeah. I was a bit preoccupied with the dog piss in the elevator last time to really look around."

"Right. Um, this is the living room. And the dining room too, I guess."

I look around my tiny apartment and try to see it through your eyes. The couch is a relic from the 70's. It's a hideous plaid design of mustard yellow, rust brown, sludge green and cream. What it lacks in style in makes up for in serviceability. It's heavy as hell but I've brought it with me every time I've moved because it is the sturdiest and most comfortable couch I've ever sat on. I took cues from the couch when decorating. After all, 'if you can't beat them, join them' applies to interior design, too. Fortunately the walls were already painted a soft cream. I've hung vintage (and imitation vintage) posters around the room. The curtains are yellow and the rug under the coffee table is brown shag. I'm usually death to potted plants, but I do have one hardy specimen that hangs in the corner by the window. Leafy vines drape from small hooks, trailing over the windows and along most of one wall. I've always thought it looked homely. But maybe it's just cheap. You are watching me expectantly.

"And you've seen the kitchen." I point from where we stand in the middle of the room. My kitchen is more of an alcove than a second room. "And the bathroom is there." I point to the closed door beyond the kitchen. "And you've seen my room. So that's it, really."

"Hmm. And should I be putting this cake in the refrigerator or on the table?" You say table, but it's really a dinette set I picked up for free when a neighbor was having a garage sale. It only has three chairs. Well, actually just two. The third isn't safe to sit on so I use it as a coat rack.

"The fridge works. Unless you're hungry right now, that is."

"Not really. I was kind of hoping the tour would include some insight as to where the action takes place." You continue talking while you put the white bakery box into my mostly bare refrigerator.

"Action?"

"Where do you normally call me from?"

"I don't understand."

"Don't you, Bella?" You return to stand in front of me and I am struck again by your height. I have to tilt my head back to meet your mischievous gaze. Your hands cup my elbows, steadying me. Drawing me closer. "Tell me where you were the other night before we were interrupted. We have unfinished business to take care of."

I swallow hard. This is so much easier at a distance, safe beneath a cloak of invisibility. "Um, I was in my room. At my computer." You lead me to the bedroom door, push it open and we step inside.

"What were you wearing?"

"A tank top and pajamas."

"Bra or no bra?"

"No bra?" My voice rises involuntarily.

Your eyes are hooded and I feel the spell washing over me again, drawing me back into our hypnotic dance. I step closer. Our toes are touching. I rise up on the balls of my feet and inhale the sweet muskiness of your scent. You lower your mouth to meet mine and I revel in the scratch of your whiskers against my lips. My hands are on your chest so I feel the heat radiating from you in waves, the steady thrum of your heartbeat and the barely-there vibration of your excitement.

"Do you want me to change?" I ask.

"Actually, I just want you to strip."

"You first. You've already seen me mostly naked. You owe me."

"Dammit, Isabella. You really are trying to kill me with suspense, aren't you?"

"Not at all. But I would like to see what I'm buying."

You chuckle under your breath and then you shock me when you step back, grasp your shirt in a bunch behind your neck and drag it forward, over your head and off completely in one swift move. I've seen guys do that before and always found it amazing. But you're just so much. . . more. You are in incredible shape. Not just for your age, either. You could put most men to shame who are _half_ your age. Your muscles are lean and well defined showing the hardness born from frequent, strenuous running or climbing. Your stomach is flat with a deep vertical cut down the center and sharp ridges outlining your abdominals.

And you're still moving. Still undressing. You toe off your shoes while simultaneously releasing your belt buckle and unzipping your jeans. Your motions are practiced, unhurried, but completely overwhelming.

Your shirt, pants, shoes and socks lay in a haphazard pile at my feet. And you are here. In my bedroom. Wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer-briefs.

Whatever self control I still possess, whatever restraint remains, is completely shattered. I am kissing you, wrapped up in your arms, trying to pull off my own clothes but failing completely. You help me lift off my own shirt and then my shoes and socks and jeans and fears are falling like autumn leaves in a storm until it's just you and me and skin.

Somehow we fall on the bed, not the floor.

Somehow I remember the condoms in the nightstand, purchased two nights ago in preparation for this event.

Somehow I still have a voice left even after screaming your name while you bring me to orgasm after crashing, crushing, devastating orgasm.

* * *

It is completely dark now and we lie intertwined on my bed, sweaty and exhausted. I hum in contentment feeling your fingertips trace patterns across my breasts and belly. Your fingers wander gradually lower, stroke along my swollen and tender flesh and then climb back up to circle my belly button. Each pass makes me shiver against you. Each time I quiver you laugh gently and begin the circuit once more.

"I love you, too, you know."

"I know," you reply gruffly.

"I'm sorry I never said it before."

"You didn't have to. I knew. I never would have insisted on seeing you if I didn't believe you loved me."

"You and your words," I sigh and yawn. "I fell in love with your words first."

"I fell in love with your smile first. I imagined your laugh so many times but it never sounded right in my own head. That's why I was so desperate for you to call me. I wanted to hear you laugh. I wanted to be the one making you laugh, not whoever you were with when you took that picture."

"I like making you laugh, too."

"Mmmm. Laughter is good. But right now, I think moaning is better."

This is all so surreal. Seeing you for the first time. Touching you, walking and joking and making love with you. It is all so vivid and yet edged with the blurred lines and iridescent, glowing borders of imagination.

This entire experience flows throw me in layers. Memories of a thousand phone calls. Echoes of our moans and cries made solid and real in this moment while I touch and taste and savor you. In my mind, we've done this countless times, so I am surprised when you respond in a way I never predicted. And I am exhilarated when a familiar path of my daydreams becomes solid before my eyes.

* * *

I'm drifting through a euphoric fog. I feel the bed shift as you sit back down beside me.

"Open wide."

I'm not quite sure what I'm expecting to happen, but I part my lips without hesitation. You place a bite of chocolate cake into my mouth and I hum in surprised pleasure. It's not the best thing you could have given me, but it's pretty close. By the third bite I open my eyes. You've pulled your underwear back on but I'm still completely naked. I squash the desire to cover myself and sit up beside you, cross my ankles and take the spare fork you offer me. Taking bites in turn, we finish the first slice and then start in on the second.

I don't intend for it to turn into more, but when a morsel of chocolate mousse drops from your fork onto your stomach I lean over and lick it off. You freeze. I think you even stop breathing. A preternatural confidence blooms inside of me. I may have been overwhelmed by you, sucked in by the power and the gravity of this force between us, but I intend to take back some of the control. I will make _you_ quiver and gasp and shake. I hook my fingers in your waistband and pull down.

Through the whooshing sound in my ears, I hear our plate and forks clatter onto the bedside table. Now your hands are buried in my hair, caressing the curve of my skull, my neck, my bare shoulders. Adrenaline swims undiluted through my veins as I love you with my lips and tongue. Taking you on a slow and tortuous climb to the peak before rushing, cascading, plummeting back down to rejoin the earth.

My limbs are sluggish. We both move slowly, dreamlike as we prepare for bed. To sleep this time. We guzzle water, brush our teeth and tumble back onto the mattress. My clock tells me it's almost 3 am. I bunch my pillow up under my cheek and pull your arm around me. Your chest is firm and solid, pressed against my back. Your legs twine with mine and I rub my toes gently along your calf. Your left hand cups and strokes my right breast slowly, gently, before becoming completely still.

My awareness dissolves completely.

* * *

I swim languidly back to the surface. Barely conscious, but warm, sated and content. This fantasy was the best one yet. I don't want it to be over. All of my senses are drenched in honey. Sweet and slow.

I stretch, feeling a dull but pleasant ache in my hips and lower back. I flex my thigh muscles against the subtle burn of tissues unaccustomed to strenuous use. My sheets caress my naked skin and tangle about my feet, a bright and cheerful sea of blue in the clear light of morning.

Your fingers are combing through my hair, gently stroking the strands away from my eyes and across my shoulders. Rainbow drops of refracted sunlight dance before my eyes. I follow them to their source – a stunning diamond solitaire that sits loosely on my ring finger.

I shiver with an indescribable pleasure. Our dream has only just begun.

* * *

_A/N: This was the original end to the story. However, these characters just wouldn't shut up! Feel free to stop reading here. Or... you're welcome to take a peek into their future with me. On to the epilogues!_


	10. Be Thankful

**Holy smokes. I've been completely blown away by your response to this story. Thanks so much for all the incredible feedback! **

**Thank you also to Nicffwhisperer and the ladies over at The Lemonade Stand. I really appreciate being included in your Monday fic rec's. **

**I received quite a few requests for continuations or future-takes. I already had a handful of ideas for outtakes but I really didn't have a conflict big enough to extend this story. Instead, I'll be posting a few scenes that I feel should address the most common questions:**

_How will Charlie react?_

_When will she meet Edward's family?_

_Will she ever be free of Gary's evil clutches?_

**Thanks again for reading!**

* * *

**Be Thankful**

It looks like an awful lot of food for two people. Am I helping my case or hurting it? I step back and evaluate my packing job. Two coolers plus a cardboard box are tied snugly beneath the tarp in the bed of my truck. I keep telling myself to act normal. Not make a big deal. Treat this like any other Thanksgiving. Of course, I've never shown up at my dad's and dropped a bombshell like the one I'm planning to drop today.

I swat your hand when I notice you picking at a flake of rust on the tailgate. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck. But I don't think you're going to need it. Remember, I am quite a catch." You strike a Captain Morgan pose with your foot up on my bumper and your hands on your hips.

"You are one smug bastard."

"Yeah. I can't really help it. My fiance came four times last night and I'm feeling all kinds of cocky."

My cheeks instantly turn fire-truck red and I feel a rush of heat in my panties as blood flow to that area surges. About last night. . .

"That's exactly why I'm nervous. My father is not going to be a fan of me dating again let alone getting engaged with zero warning. Obviously he's going to know sex is part of the equation. He still likes to believe I could be a virgin. He's going to give me the third degree, then the first time he sees you he's going to interrogate you at gun point. Depending on his mood, it may even be loaded."

You shrug with a devil-may-care expression that is incredibly hot but also makes me want to slap you. Your complacence is giving me heartburn. That and the four cups of coffee I drank this morning to compensate for the hours of sleep I lost to your remarkable stamina. Not that I'm complaining.

Okay, maybe my hips are. A little.

"We have a severe deficit to eliminate. Plus you'll be gone for the next two nights. Abstinence now is not going to make your father accept me faster but it will make me tense and cranky. That won't make me likeable to him or you or anyone else."

Well, when you put it that way. . .

I worry my lower lip with my teeth. I run through my mental list for the 50th time. I think I have everything I need. If not, I should be able to get it from Thriftway now that they are open from 6 am to noon on Thanksgiving Day. Corporate America's lack of holiday spirit makes up for my scatterbrained tendencies.

I toss my jacket, overnight bag and purse onto the passenger seat and meet you at the back of the truck. "So I'll see you Friday evening?"

"Mm hm." You grab my hands and pull me against you. I rest my forehead against your chest and inhale. Your scent has become home to me. Warm and sweet and safe. After only four nights, I can't imagine not waking up to the feel of your hands against my bare skin and the heat of your body pressed up against mine.

I allow my fingers to drag slowly down from your shoulders to your stomach. I wrap my arms around your waist and squeeze. Hugging you feels amazing. You rest your lips against the crown of my head and kiss me gently, lovingly.

I pull back, hook my fingers through your belt loops and rise up on my toes to kiss you good bye. It feels like hello. Your lips moving in time to our breaths, accelerating along with my heart rate. Your tongue brushing against my lips, teasing but not quite forcing its way inside. I mirror your movements. The tip of my tongue flicks across your upper lip and you gasp against my mouth. You lower your hands to my hips, moving me away from you slightly.

"You better get going. Traffic."

"Yeah. You're right." My mind is telling me to get in the truck. My body wants to pull you down to the ground and climb on top of you. I look down and notice several old gum spots and what appears to be chew spit. That does the trick. I am officially turned off. In my perfect world, all floors will be immaculate and sterile so we can hump anywhere we feel like it.

Your eyes follow the direction of my gaze. "Gross."

"Yeah." We laugh and it feels comfortable. The sexual tension eases just enough for me to climb into the cab without my knees giving way. You stand at my open door, your hand on my left thigh and your other arm resting against the roof of my truck.

"Drive safe, babe. I wish I could come with you."

"I will. And it's better this way. He can get used to the idea of you without a gun in his hand. Finish your work so we can have the weekend. We need to get the plane tickets and start our Christmas shopping when I get back."

"It's a date." You kiss me one more time on the lips and step back, shutting my door firmly on the first try. I grin. You're a fast learner.

Driving away from you creates true physical pain. I feel it in my heart. I feel it in the tightness of my ribs with every breath. I feel it in the tension that runs like a cord from my too-tight shoulders to the ever-present knot of molten desire that possesses my core. I crank up the radio and the heater, singing along to Pearl Jam as I creep up the on-ramp to I-5 along with thousands of other holiday travelers. It's a long way to Forks and every mile that I put between us hurts a little more.

* * *

I pull into my dad's driveway before 5 o'clock. Our traditional arrangement is that he handles dinner (take-out pizza) on Wednesday evening, and I make Thanksgiving dinner. It works for us.

Charlie isn't big on words. His eyebrows and mustache do most of the talking. Maybe that's why I chose to major in Communications. His eyebrows are twitching far more than normal as he helps me unload the truck and then watches me cram food into every available inch of refrigerator and cupboard space. The turkey is too big and remains in the cooler with a couple icepacks to finish defrosting overnight.

"I brought some freezer trays. I thought it would be nice and convenient for you to have meals in the freezer that you can just pop in the oven for half an hour when you get back from your shift."

"I hope you brought a lot of trays."

"I did."

We don't talk much. We share a pizza and a couple beers and watch sitcoms on his new flat screen. I'm tired from driving and decide to go to bed early. I give my dad a hug goodnight, feeling thankful for the familiarity of his arms around me, his gruff 'Good night, Bells.' and the coarse tickle of his mustache as he kisses my forehead.

I feel his eyes on me as I climb the stairs to my old bedroom. He hasn't said a word about the ring. Maybe he didn't notice.

Phone sex is absolutely off the table for tonight. I would die if my dad overheard that. But I'm hopeful that we'll at least get to talk for a few minutes before bed. I change into pajamas, brush my teeth and then sit on the edge of my bed. I'm crushed when I call your cell phone and you don't pick up. I send you a picture of my bed. It's a twin sized mattress on a pine frame. The sheets are purple and show sharp creases from sitting in the linen cupboard since my last visit several months ago.

_I miss you, but it's not like I have space for you anyway. Sweet dreams, Edward._

I turn out my light and snuggle under the covers, feeling young and sheltered the way I always do when I'm sleeping under my father's roof. I'm heartbeats away from dreamland when my phone vibrates with an incoming reply.

_Plenty of space. We're stackable and fully interlocking. Like LEGOs._

I giggle and send you a sleepy reply.

_Rain check. But yeah._

* * *

Thanksgiving morning is barely controlled chaos. My dad acts as my sous chef, chopping and mixing per my instructions. The turkey is stuffed and in the oven by 10 o'clock. He occasionally stops to answer the phone, trading Thanksgiving greetings and well wishes with several of the neighbors and Mark, his deputy. I'm humming under my breath and measuring out pumpkin pie spice when my dad breaks in with an observation.

"This looks like enough food to keep me straight through to Christmas."

"Um. Yeah. About Christmas. I'm going to be out of town so I won't be able to visit until New Year's Eve."

"Meeting the parents, huh? When are you planning to introduce me to this guy?"

"Wait. What? How did you know?"

"You mean apart from the engagement ring you're wearing? Some guy in a fancy car has been casing the neighborhood since 8 PM last night and someone with a remarkably similar profile has been walking his dog up and down our street for the last two hours. I've already gotten five calls about him. Seriously Bella, I'm not blind or senile."

"He what?" I drop the whisk into the bowl and run to the front window. Sure enough, a man in dark jeans, a jacket and a gray beanie is watching his puppy as it sniffs a mail box post. I would recognize you two anywhere. Something about the site doesn't meet Barkley's approval and he tugs on the leash to keep walking without leaving his normal mark. "That son of a bitch," I mutter under my breath. I thought all those phone calls were friends wishing Charlie Happy Thanksgiving. I was wondering why he was so popular all of a sudden. The phone has been ringing all morning. I'm oddly amused and a little irritated. Your big Thanksgiving plans involved stalking me, wasting gas and wearing holes through your shoes. I have half a mind to leave you out there.

"You gonna invite him in?"

"Naw. He enjoys the outdoors." I bite my lip to hide my smile as I finish mixing the pumpkin filling, pour it into the waiting crust and slide the dish into the oven.

"Bells. . ."

"Yes, dad?"

"Talk to me."

I continue wiping down the counter in preparation for rolling out a crust for the apple pie. I let my hair fall across my face to hide my blush of embarrassment or pleasure or confusion. . . I don't even know.

My dad is still watching me silently, leaning against the counter with his arms folded and his ankles crossed. He looks comfortable enough to stand there all afternoon.

"How long have you known him?"

"See, that's the complicated part. We've been dating for three years. But it was kind of a long distance thing and I didn't know for sure how it would play out so I wasn't comfortable advertising it."

"Oh. You met him on the internet."

I freeze and look up in shock. Charlie doesn't sound surprised or even bothered.

"Yeah. It started out that way."

"So how long have you been dating in the real world?"

"He moved to Seattle five months ago." Something in my tone clues him in to my misdirection. He raises his eyebrow and waits. "We met for the first time last Friday. But it's not how it seems. It's been exclusive for both of us from the start. Edward's really an amazing man. And he wants to meet you. Well, obviously he wants to meet you since he followed me down here, but he wants to be a part of my life here. I'm meeting his family in Chicago this Christmas." His mustache twitches twice. It might be a smile. It might not.

"Edward. Kind of an old fashioned name, isn't it? How old is he?"

I kind of choke on my words, no longer able to maintain eye contact. I always think of Charlie as old because he's my dad. The truth is he only turned 49 over the summer. He's still pretty young and fit. Not ripped like you, but he's no slouch either.

"Please tell me he's not retired."

"Eww. No! Gross, dad! He's 43, okay?"

Charlie narrows his eyes infinitesimally while I squirm. "Well, it could be worse. This at least makes my news easier to share." He clears his throat and looks away, at the ceiling, at the floor. He's suddenly pale and unable to talk.

"News? What news? Is something wrong?" My brain shifts immediately from my discomfort to concern for my dad.

"No, no. But I wasn't sure how you would react. See, I met someone, too."

I do choke this time. I'm coughing and sputtering while my dad pounds on my back when the doorbell rings. I take a few wheezing breaths, trying to force air past the painful clog in my throat.

"Don't worry, Bella. I'll get it. It's probably just Sue and the kids."

"Kids?" I squeak out in alarm.

I escape up the stairs and hide in the bathroom like a coward. I feel completely blind-sided. It's not a bad thing. I'm happy for Charlie. But I can't process everything at once like this. He's dating again? I don't recall him ever being romantically involved with anyone. Not since my mom left.

I'm a grown woman. Lots of women my age have kids so I don't know why I'm terrified. Maybe because I could be about to meet my future step mother and step siblings and my fiance is roaming around my street like a vagrant. And now it's starting to rain. Again.

I stare at my reflection until my breathing returns to normal and I can no longer feel my pulse in my eyeballs. I wait a few more moments until the half-crazed look fades from my eyes, wash my hands and exit the bathroom. There are voices in the living room as I descend the stairs.

"She's just upstairs. And we've got another surprise, too. Her fiance drove down from Seattle to join us. And he brought his dog."

A woman's voice says, "Fiance? How exciting!" at the same moment that a boy's voice pipes up with, "A dog! Awesome! Mom, can I have a dog, too?"

"No, Seth. We live in an apartment. You know that would never work."

I step into the living room and see Sue for the first time. She is beautiful, with black hair cut in a short bob and smiling eyes set in a round, youthful face. Seth appears to be about eight or ten years old. His older sister is sitting on the couch scrolling through her phone. Her hair falls in a thick, silky black veil around her shoulders. She looks up and catches my gaze before dropping her eyes back to her phone shyly.

"Bella, there you are. I would like you to meet Sue and her kids, Leah and Seth."

"It's wonderful to meet you." I hold out my hand to greet her. Her fingers close around mine, cool but firm. Her smile is genuine and I feel some of my nerves dissipate.

Seth bounces on the couch excitedly. "You have a dog?"

"Actually, Barkley is Edward's dog. He's out walking him right now. Do you want to go with me and find him?"

"Yeah! Can I, mom?" Seth's eyes are huge and pleading. That kid is going to be a heart breaker.

Sue agrees readily. "Make sure you wear your jacket. It's raining again."

Seth grumbles but shrugs into his jacket and wedges his feet back into his shoes. I check the oven timer, turn the temperature down and leave the pumpkin pie to finish cooking. The apple pie will have to wait until we come back. I hope you haven't gone too far. I still have several other side dishes to finish.

Seth bounds down the front steps ahead of me and I pull out my phone to text you.

_Busted!_

My phone buzzes a couple seconds later.

_I had no choice. Barkley missed you._

I laugh out loud and pick up my pace. We turn in the direction I last saw you walking, kicking our feet through soggy leaves and pine cones. Seth and I only make it a block before we see you in the distance. You are jogging toward us but Barkley is still pulling at the leash. Seth chatters beside me. His gait is closer to skipping than walking. He can't contain his excitement. He reminds me a lot of a puppy himself.

Watching you running toward me is thrilling. Like a scene from a movie without the cheesy soundtrack. You slow to a brisk walk when you get within shouting distance but Barkley continues to drag on the leash until he's joyfully bouncing and licking and snuffling me. Aw, hell. My pants are covered with filth now. But I can't help the grin that takes over my face or the impulse that makes me crouch down and hug him, ruffling his fur and loving on him like he's my best friend, not yours.

Barkley quickly turns his attention from me to Seth, bouncing and cavorting like, well, like a four month old puppy. Seth's eyes practically pop out of his face when you hand him the leash. We link arms and follow behind the boisterous pair. You smell like Edward plus sweat, wet dog and leaf mold. I can't say it's an improvement, but I'm so glad you're here.

"So, that's Seth."

"I was wondering. He's not yours. Whose is he?"

I laugh as the preposterous idea of me having a 10-year-old kid. "He's Sue's son. My dad's girlfriend," I say by way of explanation. "She has a daughter, too. Her name is Leah."

"Is this new?"

"New to me. Actually, once I got over the shock, I was grateful. It took a lot of the pressure off. My dad can be a hard ass but he's no hypocrite. I think we lucked out."

"So does that mean I can come in?"

"Please do. My dad's phone has been ringing non-stop. All the nosy neighbors were trying to figure out who you were and what you were doing here. You know, you should have just told me you wanted to come."

"I did. You said no."

"I didn't mean 'no'. I meant that I wanted to tell my dad about us first instead of shoving it in his face without warning. I wanted to ease him into it."

"It sounded like a 'no'."

"Fine. Thank you for ignoring my wishes and showing up at my dad's house like a psycho stalker. I owe you."

You laugh with your head back and your mouth wide open, white teeth on display. I love that sound.

I run into the house and grab a towel for you to clean Barkley up a bit before we go inside. My dad's backyard isn't fenced and I don't want to risk losing him to his roaming curiosity or a passing cougar.

The three of us tramp into the house with Barkley, pink cheeked and damp from the ever present rain. My dad and Sue are standing close together in the kitchen, their heads inclined towards one another. I catch Leah's eye. She is watching them, too. We trade a smile. I think we'll get along fine.

I introduce you all around. Seth has already attached himself to you. Leah blushes and avoids looking at you. She's old enough to find a handsome man attractive, but still innocent and embarrassed by her reaction. Sue is as open with you as she was with me, shaking your hand and meeting your gaze boldly. She's a no nonsense kind of woman. I see why my father is attracted to her.

Sue helps me prepare the apple pie while you and my dad share a six pack of cheap beer-in-a-can. I chuckle to myself. You don't fit in here but you're trying. And I love you for it.

An hour later the turkey is ready and we all chip in setting the table, placing serving dishes along the counter and pouring drinks. I didn't plan to feed six people today. I only planned on overfeeding two. Somehow it balances out perfectly.

Charlie and I usually pile our plates high with food and migrate to the living room. Today we sit around the dining table, shoulder to shoulder, elbows bumping. My dad clears his throat and I watch his mustache and eyebrows dance in preparation for a big speech.

"I didn't really know how today would turn out. I'm grateful that Bella drove all the way down here to cook Thanksgiving dinner for her old man. What's more, I'm so happy that she has found a man who she loves and who cares about her like she deserves." I look from my dad to your face. You two were talking about me. I can tell. Oh well, you must have said something right because my dad is smiling, not cursing. And his shotgun is nowhere in sight.

"I'm also very thankful to have Sue, Leah and Seth in my life. You make Forks a brighter place, that's for sure."

Leah breaks in, "Like that's hard."

Her mom scolds her with a stern look and she subsides with a smirk. My lips are twitching, too.

Charlie clears his throat again. "Like I was saying, I'm very grateful that you are part of my life. I can't imagine not sharing my future with all of you. That's why I'm thankful most of all that Sue said yes yesterday when I asked her to marry me."

Our jaws all drop. Except yours. Apparently my dad told you before he told me. Whatever. I'm thrilled. Now I see the plain white gold band on Sue's right ring finger. Her wedding band and engagement ring from her deceased husband still adorn her left hand. Sue catches my eye and I smile even bigger. She doesn't need my approval to marry my father, but she has it anyway.

Sue continues what my father started. "I'm thankful for you, Charles. You taught me how to smile again. And I feel so blessed to be able to watch my daughter grow into such an amazing young woman. Seth, you make me proud each and every day. Thank you both for supporting me and welcoming Charles into our family."

There are tears in Leah's eyes when she begins speaking. "I'm thankful that we're all having dinner together. I feel like today is better than Christmas because now I know I'm going to have a father and an older sister." She looks at me and we both blush. "And I'm thankful for my iPhone."

We all laugh. She has barely put her phone down all day.

"I'm thankful that Edward is going to let me help him train Barkley."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Barkley has you wrapped around his over-sized paw. I wonder who is going to be training whom. The puppy in question is lying under the table, wedged between six pairs of feet, most likely wishing we will hurry up and get to the good part. Food.

I realize it's my turn and I'm a bit tongue tied. I look around at the faces of my family, old and new. "I'm thankful that I have the coolest dad in the world. I'm so glad he found you, Sue, and I'm really looking forward to getting to know you guys. I'm already excited about next Thanksgiving. And I'm also so relieved that Edward is obnoxiously persistent." My gaze settles on you, green eyes glassy with emotions as strong as my own. "Thanks for not giving up on me. Thanks for fighting for me."

You squeeze my hand under the table and I lean in to kiss you, a fleeting peck on the corner of your smiling lips. You silently mouth the words 'never and always' and smile the very same crooked smirk that I first fell in love with.

It's your turn.

"I'm thankful for Barkley. Best bargaining chip ever." You wink at me and I grin. He really is.

* * *

_Here's a toast to all the Barkley lovers out there! *cheers*_


	11. Holly Jolly

_Here's some pre-holiday cheer with a splash of citrusy fun. Enjoy!_

* * *

I've managed dozens of catered events before. It's no big deal. Really. Confirm the venue and layout, verify the headcount, get the menu approved, get the contract signed, let everyone else take care of their shit and make sure the invoice is paid in full at the end. No sweat.

Right.

I've never been invited to one of those events. I've also never had to forcibly remind a client that I will NOT be on the menu so get your face out of my crotch and sign here. Now.

You blindly grab the pen, scribble something illegible in the vicinity of the signature line and drop the pen on the floor to free your fingers up for other work.

I slump further down in my chair, finger nails scraping your scalp, hips lifting. Urging you faster. More. _Please_. . .

Fuck. . . . . I'm going blind.

It's at least a minute before the sparks and flashes dim and normal vision returns. You are kneeling between my feet, shirtless, pajamas hanging loose around your hips. I'm still wearing my bra and blouse. I have no idea where my skirt and panties disappeared to. Under my desk? Who the hell knows? I'm late for work and I need another shower.

"Don't you have to be somewhere? Crunch numbers? Schmooze another millionaire over coffee and pastries?"

"I had an appointment to meet with the caterers for our holiday party at 7 am." You pull your phone off my desk and open an app. "Yep. And it looks like we wrapped up ahead of schedule. I'll be at the office by 8 with plenty of time to prep for my 8:30 schmooze appointment. Perfect."

You kiss my clit one more time and pat my trembling thigh, laughing when I flinch and glare at you. "Fine, if you're running ahead of schedule, you can drop me off at work since I missed my bus."

"Sounds great," you reply, tossing the words over your shoulder carelessly as you cross the hall to my bathroom. Just for that I'm not joining you in the shower. You can work out any latent frustration all by yourself.

I strip off my remaining clothes, grab a washcloth from the linen cupboard and follow you to the bathroom. Your body is a blur behind the shower curtain but your movements are obvious all the same. I wet the cloth and scrub my face. Your breathing is loud in this confined space. Steam is billowing from around the curtain. I feel myself throbbing in time with your strokes and I grit my teeth. I rinse and wring out the washcloth repeatedly, sponging away the sheen of sweat that coats my body. I drop the cloth in the laundry basket and leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Your moan follows me through the closed door. You groan out my name and it sounds loud, even over the spray of the shower.

_Gah_. . .

I was a bit nervous when we sat down and had the birth control conversation. I will not take hormonal birth control and condoms are not 100% effective. That means that until I'm ready for kids, sex is off the table for about one week out of every month. Your response surprised me. In a very pleasant way. Like everything else with us, you took my restriction in stride without a word of argument or complaint.

"Whatever you're most comfortable with. It's a good thing we have other options."

And then you proceeded to demonstrate.

I never realized how sexy and erotic it could be to masturbate together. Or each other. I also didn't realize how tempting it would be to just say, "Screw it." and ride you bare, letting the chips (or in this case, the sperm) fall where they may. I've succeeded at maintaining self control so far. Success can be surprisingly disappointing.

When I'm ready. . .

When will I be ready? I have no clue.

* * *

I'm dressed again in fresh clothes and half way through a luke warm mug of coffee when you join me in the kitchen. Your hair is combed but still damp and your tie is loose around your neck. I hand you your coffee and tighten your tie, making sure your collar lies smooth. I bite my lip to control my smile. You're smirking at me. Yes, I know you were putting on a show. And yes, I loved it. You bastard.

"Ready to go?"

"Absolutely."

You drop me off at my office and I'm pleased to see it's only 7:53. I'm actually early.

"Lunch at noon?"

"Sorry, babe. Not today. Could you have Sally send something up for me?"

"No problem. I'll see you at home this evening."

"I'll let you know when I'm on my way. I need to swing by my house and hang out with Barkley for a bit. He probably thinks I gave him away to the neighbor kid."

"Why don't we stay at your place tonight?"

"I don't have a real bed yet," you warn me.

"It's a good thing we have other options," I tease.

I lean across for a kiss and scurry into my office with a parting wave.

I pull the crumpled contract out of my purse and set about making the necessary calls to ensure we have everything lined up for the holiday party at your office next Thursday.

Gary pops in and out of the office all day, his brow furrowed and his voice even snappier than usual. By mid afternoon my temper is rising and I kind of want to snap his scrawny neck. Angela has her coat on and is wrapping her scarf around her neck when I pull her aside for a private interrogation.

"What's up with him today? That stick is so far up his ass he's choking on it."

"He's freaked out because Olivia's pregnant."

"What? How did you find that out?"

"He was talking to her on his cell just outside the front door on Monday. Actually, he was yelling. I could hear everything even though the door was shut and I was sitting at my desk trying to ignore it. I guess she's pretty far along and has been hiding it."

I think back to the last time I saw her here at the office, bundled up in her coat even though it's always 70 degrees in here. How do you hide something like that from your husband? Maybe it isn't that hard if he's never around. I feel for her. I know you would never yell at me like that, especially if I told you I was pregnant. You'd probably take me home to celebrate by having sex sans condom. My stomach flips at the thought.

* * *

It feels like sacrilege to order take out in a kitchen like this. But you've been staying at my place so much your fridge is almost completely bare. I recork the Riesling and put it in the fridge alongside your half of the seafood pasta I bought at Buca di Beppo. I shove my feet into my boots and go outside to play catch and wrestle with Barkley. It's almost 7. You could be home any minute or you could wake me up at 10 to mess around. Your schedule is anything but consistent but I don't mind. Being the boss has its drawbacks, but it has a few perks, too. Like writing oral sex with your fiancé into your schedule and calling it a 'business meeting'.

I check Barkley's water bowl, give him a kiss and head inside. My nose is running, I smell like a wet dog and my fingers are stiff with cold. You're leaning against the counter in your partially unbuttoned dress shirt and slacks, an empty plate beside you and a glass of wine in your hand.

My mouth starts watering. You look so damn edible it's almost criminal.

"I'm going upstairs to have a bath."

You raise your glass and your eyebrows. You swallow and watch me as I shed my extra layers and wash my hands.

"Is that an invitation?"

"You don't need an invitation. I have an open door policy."

My heart skitters as I climb the stairs, your footsteps heavy with purpose several steps behind.

I start the bath and peel off the rest of my clothes. The bathroom is small with chipped porcelain fixtures and faded tiles. When your contractor gets back to work next week we'll be spending even less time here. I'm eager to see the transformation, but I also love it just how it is. My toothbrush in the cup with yours. My green towel hanging beside your gray one. A bottle of Midol in the medicine cabinet next to your eye drops and deodorant. It's kind of perfect.

When the bath is full I sink into the hot water with a sigh. My skin shivers at the extreme change in temperature. I feel the flesh around my nipples tense as the scalding water rushes over them, sloshing between my breasts when I lean back. I tilt my head back until my hair is completely soaked. You sit down on the closed toilet seat a couple feet away. Still holding your wine. Watching.

I squeeze a dollop of body wash onto my pouf and work it into a thick lather. Eyes averted, I run it up and down my arms, over my chest and stomach, lifting my legs from the water one at a time. Taking my time. Your gaze bores into me. The steam is stifling and I feel short of breath. I rinse away the bubbles and lie back in the water with my eyes shut. With trembling hands I continue to wash myself, stroking my breasts in slow circles with the pouf until the skin is warm and relaxed, but my nipples still stand erect and sensitive to the cooler air.

I mimic the circular motion with my left hand around my belly button. I hear you put your glass down on the counter. The sound echoes sharply through the water that fills my ears. Even with my eyes closed, I sense you getting closer. Kneeling. Arms resting on the edge of the tub.

My left hand creeps lower, dipping down in the water, beneath the floating bubbles. I spread my right hand, cupping my entire breast. I catch my nipple between my knuckles and pull it up, stretching the skin taught. With my left hand, I use my second and fourth fingers to part my lips, stroke my middle finger slowly up and down my slit, dipping inside and running the tip of my finger slowly around the opening to my vagina. I bite my lip and imagine these are your hands. Your fingers.

I hum my pleasure, hearing my own voice like a mermaid's song beneath the water. I brace my feet at the end of the tub, spreading my thighs as far as the walls allow. Your hand is on my knee. My inner thigh. Sliding down slowly. So slowly.

I sense the moment your control breaks a split second before it happens. It's like the air pressure drops suddenly. The storm breaks with a crack of thunder and a microburst.

Your other arm plunges beneath the water, your sleeve soaked and clinging to my skin as you lift my shoulders. Your lips close over mine. Your tongue invades my mouth as your right hand finds and joins my left. Fingers tangling. Stroking and plundering. Gliding into velvet heat and circling, pressing, clenching. I feel the blood rushing through my veins. Tiny vessels bulging hard as wires against our twisting fingers.

You suck the air from my lungs. The heat from my soul. And I burst into liquid flames, crying out my ecstasy as you drink it in, ravenous and relentless.

I convulse over and over before I finally dissolve, boneless and sated into the swirling waters. I would drown if you weren't holding my head above the water. Your right hand still cups me, holding my slack fingers captive against the softness of my sex. Your lips are smiling against mine. I don't have the strength to smile back. I think you like that.

* * *

The day of your holiday party arrives and I cannot quell the panic that swells within me, crowding out appetite, sense and rational thought. I'm so scatterbrained right now that any and all distractions derail me.

You are very distracting. I flee my apartment while you are still in the shower.

I barely make it to my bus. Today is not the day to be late. I'm skipping lunch and leaving an hour early to prepare for the party. Your party. Where I will meet your coworkers and friends. I'm nauseated by the thought.

My nerves don't let up all day, even after I have confirmed every last detail with Ms. Lopez, the chef, servers, bartender, cleaning crew, and so on. Angela watches me with sympathy. She's leaving at lunch time and won't be there to run interference between me and Gary. He's had more than a week to adjust to the idea of fatherhood and it has only made him worse. I'm one more condescending, spiteful, dickhead comment away from walking out. My desire to ensure the success of your office party tonight is the only thing keeping me from committing homicide.

I log out of my computer at 4 pm with a bitter smile twisting my lips. I didn't come close to finishing everything on my list. In my defense, it was an insane amount of work to finish in only 8 hours. I at least managed to cross off everything urgent and the rest will have to wait until Monday. I plan on dragging you home after the party, getting completely hammered, screwing you until neither of us can walk and then sleeping until noon tomorrow.

I hurry home, stuff my hair under a shower cap and wash away the stress of the day. After toweling off vigorously, I slip on my new underwear and thigh high stockings. The backless bra is more problematic and it takes me almost ten minutes to force the contraption into a somewhat comfortable position. My breasts are pinned into place with far more than the 'recommended' number of adhesive pads. Yes you're worth it, but still. . . Ugh.

I'm furious and cursing by the time I step into the dress I bought for this occasion. It's a royal blue, long-sleeved mini dress. It's high cut in the front but plunges dangerously low behind. I thread sliver hoops into my ears, outline my lips and eyes with far more makeup than I normally wear, and coax some volume into my hair with my round brush, spray gel and a hair dryer.

I want your eyes pinned to me all night long. And I want everyone you know to see it. Call it immaturity. Call is possessiveness. I'm staking my claim on you. The office pool is officially closed. There's no way anyone will think you're gay - or in any way remotely available - after tonight.

* * *

I know I present an incongruous image climbing out of my old pick-up dressed like this. I get a lot of looks as I slip my silver sling-back pumps on, hitch my purse over my shoulder and hop down from the cab. The damp, cold air sinks straight into my skin and I am shivering violently by the time I have paid for parking and walked the half block to the lobby of your building. I wish I had a coat to wear that didn't look like it was bought at a thrift store. I reach for the door with my left hand and my ring winks at me. It's all the encouragement I need.

The gentleman at the security desk nods at me as I pass and head straight to the elevator. I check the time - 6 pm. I have an hour to make sure everything is perfect for your party. I step out into the lobby of the 24th floor and take a deep breath. This is it. Show time.

Your company's offices take up the entire floor. The reception area is decorated with real evergreen garlands, silver glass ornaments and twinkling white lights. It looks and smells a lot like Christmas. There is nobody behind the desk but I hear voices and the clatter of tables, chairs and dishes through the double glass doors.

At first I am appalled by the chaos I see. But after a few moments I start to see the order. It's a choreographed dance and a woman I assume to be Ms. Lopez is conducting. She is shorter than me, a bit heavier and loud. Very loud.

I turns out I had nothing to be worried about. Before my eyes, tables pop up, cloths are draped, chairs arranged and chafing dishes fall into place. Within minutes of my arrival, the set up crew disappears to change into their serving attire. I look around and see the bartender methodically arranging his bottles. I approach him and check that he has everything he needs. A case of white and one of red wine. Good wine, too. You don't skimp. He's got decent scotch, bourbon, vodka, juices and other liquor for mixed drinks. This looks like it's going to be one hell of a party if the alcohol supply is any indicator.

"You must be Bella," Ms. Lopez suddenly materializes at my elbow.

"Yes. And you are Ms. Lopez, correct? It's wonderful to finally match a face to the voice." She is exactly how I pictured her from your description and the conversations we've had leading up to tonight.

"Yes, yes. Thank you for coming early. The food will be here soon?"

"Absolutely. 6:45. It looks like you have everything else in place and ready to go. This space is really amazing. It's beautifully decorated, too."

"My boys, they helped me. And Mr. Cullen, too. He's so tall. We didn't need a ladder."

I turn in place, taking it all in. The frosted glass partitions, dark wood furniture, patterned carpet and the shiny logo on the wall. It all looks very expensive. The garlands and lights soften the mood somewhat, but I still feel intimidated. We have a few minutes before the food arrives and none of your other employees are here yet. I'm pleased when Ms. Lopez offers to give me a tour.

It's all quite predictable, but in a highly polished, the best of everything kind of way. She shows me the cubicles, small offices, conference room, break area. Very nice, very clean, but definitely a place focused on business. Then she shows me into your office.

It smells like you in here. I pick up the scent of your soap and cologne, the spearmint gum you chew between meals, the comforting smell of leather and wood polish, and very subtly, that addictive, musky scent I know so intimately now. This is it. Your office. Where 'the action' takes place.

Of course Ms. Lopez knows. She's watching me now, a sense of vindication simmering behind her kind but inquisitive gaze. My crimson blush tells her everything I'm sure she already knew. I scan the room as disinterestedly as I can, but I can't stop my eyes from returning to your desk. How long until you make good on your promise?

We both hear the elevator chime through the open door. The serving staff pulls the catering carts from the elevator and begins setting up. The scents of prime rib, roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables and more waft through the office. Ms. Lopez scans me once more, appraising, approving, and we step back into the main area to welcome your employees and other guests.

I had my reservations about holding a holiday party at your office. I wondered why you didn't select somewhere offsite, casual and neutral. Watching you step from the elevator at five minutes to 7 o'clock, it all makes sense. You are the king of your domain, greeting employees, their spouses and your other guests. This is an open house of sorts. Less than a year in business here in the city and you've already expanded your network to include representatives from major insurers, investors, banks, builders and local politicians. I recognize several city council members and corporate executives. You make your way slowly to my side and draw me in for a simple kiss. Your hand on my waist, fingers brushing naked skin. Your lips on my temple. Your eyes saying hello, thank you, I love you.

The elevator doors continue to open and close, disgorging guests in pairs and crowds. The space fills to overflowing, people milling about with plates and drinks in hand. It's casual but beautiful, with instrumental music drifting in between conversations to fill any awkward silences. I meet your assistant, Mike, who seems a tad overwhelmed by the crowd. A gorgeous brunette with springy curls and equally buoyant breasts clings to his arm. She introduces herself and I realize I am now face to face with the infamous Jessica Stanley. She very. . . outgoing. But at least her lips look well moisturized. Glossy, even. Lucky Mike.

I manage to pace myself with the wine, only taking one sip for each bite of food. By 8:30 I've already picked out the handful of guests who will make fools of themselves tonight and wake with a hangover. Fortunately for them, their very kind and generous boss has declared tomorrow a day off.

I split my time between chatting with your associates and conferring with Ms. Lopez about the state of the food and refreshments. So far, things have gone off without a hitch.

At 8:45 you call for everyone's attention. You stand beside the giant Christmas tree. It's a stately Noble fir strung with garlands of silver beads and hovering protectively over empty boxes wrapped in glistening paper. I want a picture of this moment. Your smile is so big, so genuine, I can feel its warmth from 10 yards away. People turn to you and conversation dims to a hushed whisper. I slip along behind the crowd to speak with the head server. They should be replacing the empty chafing dishes with trays of petits fours and cups of fresh fruit with brandy syrup and clotted cream. I'm itching to try a bit of everything so I almost miss your announcement.

"I would also like to take this moment to introduce my fiancé, Miss Isabella Swan." My eyes almost pop out of my head. All thought of dessert flees and I stare at you and gulp. "Bella, come on up here for a minute."

I hate being the center of attention. Absolutely detest it. I grit my teeth and focus on not falling on my face as I walk through the crowd of smiling faces to join you beside the tree.

You take my hand and raise it to your lips with a smirk. I try really hard to scowl. My traitorous lips twitch instead. Your arm snakes around my waist, turning me to face the crowd. These are your people. The future of your business. Your family, of sorts. It hits me suddenly. That makes them mine, too. All of my effort, the planning, the frantic calls and coordination to make tonight perfect are no longer just about you and me. It's about all of them, too. I feel a sense of overwhelming pride. It's a foreign feeling, but exhilarating.

"Over the last three years, Bella has been the best part of my life. Knowing her, loving her, has made me a better man, a better boss, a better friend, brother, son, coworker. . . I can't count the number of times that her input or advice has helped me see through a tough situation or find the best route to a successful negotiation. Tough love or chocolate cake. . . she always seems to have the right recipe. Thank you, Bella."

Several people snicker and clap as I blush. I wonder how many of them were there when Mr. Simpson's chocolate torte arrived last month. Your words thrill me. I had no idea. . . this is how you see me? My eyes prickle and I look down, swamped by the emotions of the moment. I regain my bearing as you continue speaking.

"Many of you relocated with me from our Chicago office. Several of you came to us from competing firms. We've shared a lot of late nights, bitter disappointments and a few really stunning successes. And of course, we've all worked our asses off this year. Through it all, I have been overwhelmingly impressed by the dedication, perseverance and creativity of everyone on our team. Thank you for all your hard work."

Your words are met by spontaneous applause and I join in, swept up by the unbridled enthusiasm of this crowd. You quell the applause with your hands raised.

"What are you all clapping for? I haven't said anything you didn't already know." They laugh at your teasing. "I'm not the only one who wants to say something. You all know Marcus. He's my boss as well as yours and he would like to share a few thoughts and a touch of holiday cheer."

The applause that follows is slightly more restrained, but still welcoming and we step back a pace as an older gentleman in a dark, pin striped suit walks up to join us. He shakes your hand and greets me in a kind but reserved manner.

He turns to the crowd and addresses them in a quiet but stately voice, reiterating much of what you've already said and adding a bit of executive level oomph to it. Ms. Lopez appears at your elbow and hands you a stack of silver embossed sealed envelopes. You meet my questioning look with a wink. A couple seconds later you step up next to Marcus and he starts to call up your employees one by one. Then I get it.

Christmas bonuses. Nice.

I though those were a thing of the past. This must have been a really good year for your company. I see a few people discreetly opening their envelopes and peeking inside. One young man's eyes tear up and his very visibly pregnant wife looks radiant when she sees the contents. A festive feeling bubbles through the room as you invite everyone to grab desserts and the party resumes.

"I'm so curious, it's killing me. What was all that about?"

"Chicago is very happy. I already told you."

"Details."

"One month pay. In cash."

"Holy shit. That's awesome. Gary doesn't even sign his own Christmas cards. We do it for him. Needless to say, I don't bother giving one to myself."

"I've got you covered."

"Do you now?"

"Mm hm. Always." I lean in for a real kiss. We're still somewhat restrained. This is your place of business, after all. But still, your lips, the music, the sounds and smells of revelry. . . it's intoxicating. I wonder how long we need to stay before I can drag you home.

Marcus leaves soon after the bonuses have all been distributed. Over the next two hours, your employees trickle out the door into the lobby, silver envelopes tucked snugly into purses and coat pockets. With tomorrow off, I assume there will be lots of people out Christmas shopping. I'm glad we already checked that box.

I'm nursing my third glass of wine and contemplating stealing one more berry cup when Ms. Lopez puts her hand on my arm.

"I'm very happy to know you. I hope you'll come by the office more often. But now, I'm going to leave Mike in charge of clean up. You should go home, too. Take Mr. Cullen with you. He spends too much time here already."

I look across the room to where you are standing talking with Mike and Jessica. You catch my eye and smile, but I can read the lines of exhaustion on your face and in the set of your shoulders. You motion for one more minute. I can wait that long.

"Thanks so much. For everything. For looking out for him and for all the wonderful work you do. I know Edward relies on you. The whole office does. Oh, and let me know what you have planned for his birthday in June. I know it's a long way off, but I would love to embarrass the hell out of him."

I think I'm speaking quietly. I'm obviously not quiet enough.

"Embarrass whom?" you ask as you wrap your arms around me.

"Uh, nobody important." I'm a terrible liar.

Ms. Lopez laughs and pats me on the arm before catching up with Mike to hand over the reins. Mike looks crestfallen but Jessica links her arm with his and drags him over to the bar. He cheers up instantly. The bartender's tip jar is overflowing, another very positive side effect of your company's largess. He'll split it with the servers who are making short work of gathering the dirty dishes, silverware and glasses that litter the flat surfaces throughout the office.

"I think everything is under control here. Wanna ride home with me?" I slip my hand down to link with yours.

"I don't know, I want to make sure everyone is going to get home okay."

"The security guard is loading the unsteady ones into waiting taxis down stairs. Ms. Lopez already arranged it."

"Am I getting the bill?"

"Meh. Probably. You got them drunk."

You roll your eyes and I laugh. Fair's fair.

"Well, I guess there's no reason for me to stick around."

"And one very good reason for you to come home with me." I lean in and whisper two words. "Garter belt." I allow my lips to brush against your ear lobe and stay there, holding my breath and waiting for your response.

You lower your mouth to my ear and reply, "Commando."

My eyes drop involuntarily down to your slacks, but your suit coat is buttoned and I have no way to verify.

I think it's time to go home. I need to investigate.

We leave your car in the garage overnight and walk out through the lobby to retrieve my truck. When the first blast of wintery air hits us you realize immediately that I'm not wearing a coat.

"Are you insane?"

"Probably."

"Here, put this on." You shrug out of your coat and I slip my arms into the too-long sleeves. I'm swimming in it, but I don't care. The air has gotten painfully cold. This just proves that women are deranged idiots where fashion is involved. Forget tires for my truck. You're buying me a winter coat.

The cab barely has time to warm up before we're pulling into my apartment building. The feel-good energy of the night is still strong in my veins as we hurry into the building and up to my apartment. Once inside I open a brand new bottle of 18 year Scotch.

"Wow. Fancy. What's the occasion?"

I grin as I hand you a tumbler half full of the smoky, aromatic whiskey. "You."

"I'm an occasion?"

"Do I need an excuse?"

"Naw," you reply, taking a long, deep breath of the vapors before tipping back your glass. Your eyes close as you roll the smooth liquid slowly over your tongue and then swallow. I mimic your motions with my eyes open, savoring the expression of sensual pleasure that softens your features. Loving the bloom of heat that spreads across my tongue and trickles down my throat to coat my stomach.

With glass in hand I lead you to the couch, ignoring the fact that our surroundings now are the complete reverse of half an hour ago. Our dress and appearance are out of place in my cluttered nest. But this is how we are. Unlikely and mismatched and perfect. I turn around and wait for you to undress me. One handed. Moving slowly and carefully through the growing fog of heat and liquor and desire.

We've come full circle. It's you, and me, and happy.

* * *

I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing. We're curled up together on the rug, our dress clothes draped over the couch behind us. I kick through the pillows and blankets until I find my purse.

"Hello?" I ask blurrily. It's not even 8:30 and we didn't stop drinking until three. The half empty bottle of scotch winks balefully at me from the coffee table. It felt so good going down. It really did. Now, I'm not so sure.

"Bella, where the hell are you?"

"Gary?"

"Well, who the hell else would it be?" he snarls through the phone. PMS has nothing on this man.

"I'm off today. I'll get to it on Monday."

"Excuse me?" He's almost screaming now. I hold the phone away from my ear but it's too late. My head rings painfully, discordant and off balance.

"I requested today off the Monday after Thanksgiving. I'll take care of whatever it is after the weekend."

"You think so, huh? Well you're wrong. Don't bother coming in. You're fired."

"Well, have a holly jolly fuck you, too," I say and hang up. I'm sure I care. Somewhere. Okay fine. Not really. You're looking at me with raised eyebrows, circles under your eyes and your hair an unruly mess. You still look incredible. "I need a new job."

"I thought we already established that."

"Yeah, well it's official now. Gary fired me." I stretch and yawn. It feels good so I drag it out a bit. Your eyes are on my naked breasts and I see the ghost of a smile on your lips.

"Do you want your half of my Christmas bonus?"

I shrug. "Actually, I'm just relieved that I don't have to go in there again. I should care. I know I should. But I don't. Is that weird?"

"Nope. I'd say it's perfect timing. I mentioned to a couple associates last night, in a very offhand way mind you, that you are a communications major with experience in business management and event coordination and are interested in new opportunities. I have a few business cards in my wallet for you. But you can get to that on Monday. Right?"

"Right," I reply, slinking back beneath the blankets and pulling your hand to my breast. "Excellent plan."

Your response is non-verbal and kind of perfect.

* * *

_A/N: Care to share your Best/Worst experience at a company Christmas party?_


	12. Family Circus

**I want to introduce you all to Edward's family. Merry Christmas!**

* * *

"Relax. None of my family members own guns. They're all staunch democrats."

"Shut up, Edward. You're not helping." You cross your arms and chuckle at my discomfort. I shuffle my feet and wait for several more agonizing seconds before the door opens.

"What are you doing waiting out here? My goodness, Edward, you should have just brought her inside. Come in, come in!"

Talk about good genes. Your mother could pass for 50. A well preserved 50. But the math doesn't work. You're 43 with an older sister. That means your mother must be at least 60. Probably older since this isn't medieval Europe. Child brides just aren't that common anymore.

I can feel the fine wrinkles around my eyes deepening. They have an inferiority complex, too.

"Edward, take her coat," your mother commands. I shiver slightly when I feel your fingertips glide down my neck before you grasp my collar and help me out of my coat. Sensuous. Possessive. It's been a month and your touch still gives me chills.

"Bella, I apologize. He behaved like a gentleman when we turned him out at 18. It seems he's regressed somewhat. I'm Esme, by the way."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Esme."

Her eyes are a clear gray and kind. Her fine caramel colored hair is pulled into a low pony tail with an ornate clip. Wispy strands have escaped the clip to softly frame her heart-shaped face. I feel an innate draw to her. I can imagine hours spent chatting over tea, cooking together, poring over bridal magazines. That last image pops into my head without warning. I never thought I would want a big wedding. I've only known her for a few moments, but having met your mother, the thought doesn't terrify me anymore.

"Hey! You aren't going to leap to my defense and tell her I'm a paragon of gentlemanly virtue?" Your tone bleeds exaggerated offense.

"What, and perjure myself? Not likely," I grumble with a mocking glare.

Esme laughs cheerfully, her voice as unrestrained and carefree as a child's. "Now, now, you two. No fighting. We've got kids in the house."

Right on cue, two children come careening through a doorway on the right and skid on socked feet right into you. "Uncle Edward! You're here! Mom, Dad, Uncle Edward is here and he brought a girl with him!"

It's been years since anyone has referred to me as a girl. The little boy must be five or six. Dirty blonde hair falls into his eyes as he wraps his arms around your leg and squeezes. His sister steps back a few feet and looks up at me curiously, brilliant blue eyes wide beneath her tumbled red-orange curls.

You put your arm around me and I brace myself. The rest of your family converges on the hall amid a thunder of feet and a storm of speculation.

"Well if it isn't the prodigal son returning," booms a deep voice.

The source of that voice is immense. He is almost your height but half again as wide, with heavily muscled chest and shoulders that make the walls stand too close. His eyes are blue and his smile is infectious. I can't help the grin that stretches my lips as he claps you on the shoulder and unclamps the blonde-haired little boy from around your leg. He tosses him into the air several times then slings him, screeching and giggling, over his shoulder. This must be Emmett. I'm just a bit shocked to realize he isn't much older than me.

"One small difference, I didn't squander my fortune. Bella, this is my brother-in-law, Emmett."

I look at you appraisingly. I'm not familiar with all the details of that particular biblical reference. What did you do to earn the title of prodigal? You meet my questioning glance with a smile and a small head shake. Later. I take advantage of a break in the horseplay to return his greeting. "It's great to finally meet you. And your kids."

Close on Emmett's heels is a beautiful blonde woman. She shares many of your features; the straightness of your nose, the curve of your lower lip, something playful in the lines about your eyes. Like you and me, there is more than a decade between the couple's ages. You Cullen's like them young, I guess.

She reaches for you first, pulling you into a close embrace. "Edward. . ." Her greeting is beautiful in its simplicity. "And you must be Bella. Welcome." I feel her arms wrap around me, slender but strong. She smells of jasmine. I hug her back, inordinately pleased by her acceptance. "So what took you so long?"

"Rosalie!" Your eyebrows furrow in annoyance.

"What? I'm just saying we would have loved to meet her last Christmas. Or the one before. I know you move slowly, but come on, Edward."

"Rose, back off." Your tone is grim but she just laughs at you. She has the same ageless beauty as your mother and her laugh is just as pleasant.

"Where did Benji and Tia disappear to? They were right beside me a moment ago."

I see two dark faces peer shyly through an open door. The boy and girl are both tall and slender with tightly coiled, glossy black hair and the angular but graceful features of North African descent.

"Benjamin, Tia, come here and meet Bella." Their faces brighten with timid smiles and they come to stand with their mother. "And the tornado is Jamie, and this young lady is Victoria, but we all call her Tori, right sweetheart?" Tori nods her head decisively. Emmett is flying Jamie around the hall like an airplane and Esme stands just inside the family room, shoulder to shoulder with an older blonde man who must be your father. My brain is spinning faster than Emmett's twirling.

"Kids, why don't you show Bella around the first floor while Uncle Edward brings their bags in from the car." Your mom gives you a pointed look. That must be code for 'Get the presents inside and locked away before they start looking for them.'

Tia and Benji take my hands and pull me through the house. Their voices are soft and rushed as they tell me all sorts of things I would never think to ask. Like the location of the extra toilet paper, the existence of a cat door for the cat that passed away nine years ago, and everyone's favorite seats in the living room for Friday movie nights. I love that your assigned seat is the center of the sectional sofa so the kids can crowd around you and all reach the popcorn. Tori follows quietly behind. Jamie is anything but quiet, running back and forth between the rooms and jumping on the couches.

The tour concludes in the kitchen; the focal point of the suburban home. One counter is end-to-end cookies in various stages of decoration. My eyes spy a tree near the edge with a suspiciously bite-shaped chunk missing. There is a corresponding smudge of green icing on young Jamie's cheek.

I'm a bit overwhelmed. Or a lot.

That's a subjective term anyway.

You, on the other hand, are right at home. You reappear with a beer in one hand and Tori wrapped around your left leg, dragging her feet on the floor with every heavy step you take. I giggle involuntarily. One day that could be our rug rat clamped on you like a limpet. The thought is terrifying but has an almost magnetic appeal. Throughout the evening my thoughts drift back to that picture over and over.

Christmas Eve dinner is a casual affair. Pizza washed down with beer. It's remarkably similar to my dad's pre-Thanksgiving tradition. Except this is deep dish pizza from a family owned pizzeria a few miles down the road, not Pizza Hut. And the beer is imported in bottles. It's like white-collar meets blue-collar and attempts to play ball. It delicious and fun, but nobody belches or wipes greasy fingers on their jeans. Not even the kids.

After dinner the family gathers in the living room. (Not the sitting room, library, study or TV room. The living room.) Thanks to Tia I know which is which. I am struck dumb when everyone stands and joins hands in a circle around the tiny carved-wood Nativity set. Carlisle leads a prayer asking for the blessings of the Christ Child on his family, especially the children. I squirm. I wonder if God cares that I think He's just a tool for people to manipulate and guilt trip one another.

Your hand is warm and firm around mine. Tia is on my left. She's my little mentor, whispering helpful hints to me so I can keep up with the prayers. I know you hear her because your lip is twitching in that way it does when you want desperately to laugh out loud. I squeeze your hand. You squeeze back. Suddenly it's okay that I bumble through the prayers, because in this case it really is the thought that counts. Your family is sweet and welcoming and I'm happy to pretend I believe in God if it means I can be here next Christmas, too.

I change my mind when we go upstairs after playing games and hanging stockings and you show me my room.

Not our room.

I scowl and raise my eyebrow. Seriously?

"It makes them more comfortable. Please. It's only two nights."

"It's okay. I get it. But you may need to book a hotel room for tomorrow even if we only use it for a couple hours."

"So all of a sudden you're okay with me paying for your hotel room."

"Take it or leave it. All I can afford is a dump that charges by the hour. Unemployed, remember? I'd rather not catch fleas. Or worse."

"No argument here. I just want to make sure we're on the same page. We'll figure out an excuse to disappear for a few hours tomorrow. After presents but before dinner. Sound good?"

"Sounds perfect." I lean in for a kiss on the lips before I shut myself in to my very own guest room for the night.

* * *

My body says it's 3 am but the clock claims it is more than two hours later when the thunder starts. I bolt up in bed, disoriented at first by the unfamiliar feel of the sheets and mattress, the height of the ceiling, and the lack of a warm body beside me. The thunder rolls again and I realize it's not a storm after all. It's miniature feet pounding down the hallway past my room. I flop back, pull the pillow over my head and groan.

My biological clock just rolled back a few years. Or more. There is no way. No. No. _No_.

_Knock knock. . . . knock knock. _

"Auntie Bella? Auntie Bella? Are you in there? Santa came! You gotta come see!"

Jamie is adorable. I won't hurt him. Not really. But I might introduce him to duct tape.

_Knock knock. . . . knock knock. _

"Auntie Bella? Why aren't you awake? It's almost morning!"

No, kid. It ain't even close. I'm seconds away from giving up all pretense of sleep and answering when the whispering starts. Kid whispers are loud enough to hear through closed doors.

"Maybe she snuck into Uncle Edward's room." I identify Tori's voice.

"Why would she do that?" Jaime sounds confused.

"I don't know. But I heard Daddy tell Mommy she was going to," Tori replies matter of factly.

"No, he said Uncle Edward was going to sneak into her room." That is Benji.

"Let's check his room first. I know how to unlock the door. Jamie, be quiet." Tori sounds older and more confident when it's just the kids.

"Tori, I really don't think we should do this. Mom and Dad yelled at me when I opened their bedroom door yesterday morning."

"Don't worry, Benji. Uncle Edward never yells."

I catch myself giggling at the pint-sized plotters. I'm pretty certain I know why they got yelled at. Fortunately for all involved, we both stayed put last night. I'm too awake now to make it worth staying in bed. I slip from beneath the fluffy comforter and open the door cautiously. When I peek around the door frame I see three figures huddled around your bedroom door. Tori lets out a small cry of victory when the knob turns and they crowd into your room. Jamie can't hold back any longer and he lets out a blood curdling shriek, jumping onto the bed and bouncing on your stomach.

I stand in the doorway and laugh at the spectacle. You go from sound asleep to wrestling and joking around in five seconds flat. I turn on the light and our eyes meet across flying bedclothes and pajama-clad bodies. I think I can move beyond my reticence after all. Seeing you looking so happy. . . it would be worth it. Morning sickness, stretch marks, sleep deprivation and all. It would totally be worth it.

We allow the three kids to drag us down stairs and you fix me a latte while I watch them open their stockings. You hand me a steaming mug just as Tia pads into the room. She unhooks her stocking and brings it over to the couch where she sits beside me and pulls out the treats one by one, carefully lining them up so she can fully appreciate them. Benji hasn't gotten further than removing a slinky from its box and is coaxing it down a haphazard staircase made from his grandfather's leather-bound books. Jamie's cheeks are bulging with candy, the contents of his stocking are strewn around and Tori is hovering protectively over hers to make sure he doesn't sample anything while her back is turned.

Once Tia has examined each item and returned everything but a single Hershey Kiss, she brings us our stockings. I can't remember the last time I had a stocking. I think we should hang our own each year, even if we aren't celebrating Christmas at home. I forgot how exciting it felt to peek inside and find treats and trinkets from Santa.

"Check it out, Bella," you say as you knot a brand new tie around your neck. It's a Looney Tunes Christmas tie.

"You're wearing that to the holiday party next year."

"And you'll match," you laugh as I unroll a blue silk vest embroidered with Elmer Fudd dressed up like a grumpy elf. It's hideous and I know my thoughts are written on my face because you're choking on your coffee and the kids are looking at us like we're insane.

"Is this normal?"

"Pretty much. Yeah. My cousin Alice has no taste in clothes. I think Rose must have put her up to the vest, though. That's extreme even for her."

I bite my lip and empty the rest of my stocking onto the floor between my feet. There is an assortment of chocolates, a pocket diary, a small envelope, a charm bracelet and a gorgeous porcelain ornament shaped like a bell adorned with silver scrollwork.

"Stockings are a team effort in our family. Emmett never bothered with upholding the integrity of the Santa myth so all the kids know the truth. Each adult contributes something. My mom probably got the ornaments. The vest and tie were from Alice. She won't be here this year because she's visiting her boyfriend in Texas. I'm betting the bracelet is from Rosalie, the candy is from Emmett and the diary is from my dad."

"Is this from you?" I ask as I open the cream colored envelope. A Starbucks gift card falls out.

"I know you love your coffee."

"That's awesome. Thanks! I wish you would have told me, though. I would have picked a theme so I could contribute, too."

"Now you know how it's done. There's always next year."

"True," I smile, feeling like the future is very, very bright.

The other adults trickle in and I lean against you, watching them all receive their stockings from Tia and ooh and ahh over the contents. Pretty much all the unguarded candy disappears into Jamie's mouth. I'm so amused when I noticed his dad doing the very same thing. So it must be a learned habit. Rosalie smacks his hand hard when he tries to steal her Krackle bar. You pelt your brother-in-law with candies from our stockings and he swipes them out of the air with a victorious whoop.

"Score! Thanks, you guys."

It's non-stop craziness at the breakfast table. Jamie has no appetite for the fried eggs, sausages, biscuits and hash browns your mom puts out. He's burning through sugar and crashing around the room like the Tasmanian Devil from your new tie. After a few minutes, Rosalie orders him outside with Emmett while the rest of us tidy up. You follow soon after with your dad and then the other kids bundle up and race outside to play in the snow.

It feels unnaturally quiet and empty as the three of us women set the house to rights again.

"So, Bella. Have we put you off the idea of kids entirely?" Rosalie asks with an ironic grin.

"Not entirely," I laugh. "But I think I'm going to need a bigger place."

"Didn't Edward just buy a house out there? He sent us pictures and it looks like it has a beautiful backyard."

It's moments like this that I remember we've only really been together a month. We sleep over at each other's places, mostly mine now that work has resumed at your house, but we haven't attempted to merge our homes or finances yet.

"Yeah, he did. It's going to be gorgeous once the remodel is complete. Right now he's mostly staying at my place and I just have a small 1-bedroom apartment. Barkley is already a handful. A kid would be impossible."

"Where is Barkley right now?"

"Oh, he's at Edward's. The boy next door is saving up to buy an Xbox. After this trip he'll probably have enough. Edward pays him very generously." The kid makes almost as much per hour as I did working for Gary. It's ridiculous how much you pay him. But you already know my thoughts on that subject.

"Edward adores that puppy. It only makes sense that he wants the best care for him. He's wanted a dog ever since he was a little boy. He went without for a very long time. We're not really dog people," your mom says with a shudder.

"Me neither. Barkley is an exception to the rule."

Rosalie and your mom make short work of the dishes and sweeping while I rearrange the plates of cookies and other treats on the dining table. I'm wondering at what point in the day Jamie will crash and pass out. It's almost 11 am and I can still hear his voice rising above everyone else's in the back yard. We watch through the windows as you pelt each other with snowballs and hide behind hastily erected walls.

It's three against four. What the kids lack in size and strength, they make up for in daring and agility. Like miniature marines, they storm your camp, swarm over the icy escarpment and engage you men in hand-to hand combat. It's hard to tell who's winning in the ensuing melee, but you, Emmett and your dad eventually emerge as the victors having resorted to underhanded tactics like tickling.

The three of us are giggling and cheering from our warm and sheltered spot on the sidelines when you decide to call it quits and come inside for dry clothes and hot chocolate. I'm riding a caffeine high so I've switched to water. I pour a generous dollop of Baileys into your mug before handing it to you and you grin through the steam, nose and cheeks red and eyebrows dripping with melting ice crystals.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. It was touch and go there for a minute. Our ammunition was low and we almost lost a soldier to frostbite, but we managed to win the day and even took four prisoners."

I look over and laugh at Rosalie scolding Emmett for going out without gloves while she makes short work of stripping off damp coats, boots, gloves and hats from her brood. She turns them loose one by one so they can collect their hot chocolate and cookies from Grandma. Once they are all settled at the table she lays into Emmett again but he cuts her off with a very cold, damp kiss.

Jamie jumps on his chair and points at them, crowing with laughter. Tori and Benji laugh along but Tia just smiles a quiet, happy smile as she watched her parents embrace. I haven't worked up the courage to ask about their story. By their mannerisms and speech I know they were not adopted as infants. They seem to be thriving, though. All four of them are loved and cherished as part of this eclectic, loud, affectionate family.

Your mom confessed earlier that she gave up cooking Christmas dinner when the grandkids arrived so she could spend her time with them instead of in the kitchen. She sets the oven timer to heat several trays of prepared sides and the spiral cut ham. As the house fills with delicious smells of stuffing, pie, ham and potatoes, we migrate to the sitting room where a giant tree presides over a mountain of gifts. They appeared overnight. I presume they were locked away in another room to limit temptation. Jamie doesn't seem to possess much self-control.

You plop down next to me on the leather love seat, pull me close and we all watch as the kids tear into the mound of gifts, looking for their names and shredding wrapping paper to uncover their booty. I keep a sharp eye out for the shiny silver paper adorned with mistletoe that we used.

Tori finds hers first even though you placed it behind the tree. It's enormous. She is dwarfed by the plush Winnie the Pooh and her screech of excitement gets everyone's attention. We're both grinning and I am so pleased she likes it.

Tia's response to the ornate jewelry chest is more subdued, but I find myself tearing up a bit as she intently explores her gift, opening each drawer and pulling out the bracelets, necklaces, and earrings we tucked away. She's only twelve but I remember how much jewelry meant to me at that age.

You kiss me on the temple and whisper, "Perfect." So far we're batting a thousand.

Benji's present eventually surfaces from the chaos as Emmett snags loose paper and stuffs it into a giant black garbage bag. Benji's face lights up when he sees the hydroplane kit you bought for him. At ten years old he already shows signs of incredible technical ability. If he doesn't grow up to be an engineer, I'll swear off chocolate for a year.

Never mind. No I won't. But I will be really, really surprised.

Jamie was the hardest one to shop for. When we were at the store and you described him to me, all I could think was that he sounded like a wild animal. It took trips to seven different stores before inspiration struck.

I know we hit the mark when I hear Emmett's bark of laughter and Jamie starts jumping and screaming louder than ever. He pulls three costumes out of the box, one after the other. Batman, Superman and Spiderman. All wonderful quality with puffy muscles sewn into the arms and torso. Jamie shamelessly strips down to his underwear and Rosalie laughingly helps him Velcro himself into the Spiderman suit. It's a good thing he was done unwrapping his other presents because he disappears from the room and we don't see him again until dinner time.

"Okay kids, take your presents up to your rooms. It's time for us boring grown-ups to exchange gifts. We'll let you know when dinner is ready."

With a bit of help from their parents, the kids head upstairs loaded with boxes and toys. Your mom goes around refilling everyone's drinks. When everyone is settled I am shocked to see that gift giving is almost a formal tradition in your family.

Your mom is first. Your dad, sister and you present your gifts to her in turn and we all watch as she unwraps them and thanks each of us individually. She seems genuinely pleased with the wooden salad bowl and servers we bought at Bellevue Square.

I'm puzzled by the gift you bought for your dad. A stethoscope? I assume he already has one since he's a doctor, but he blushes and coughs and shoves it back into the gift bag. Your mom looks curious and bemused. Emmett jumps forward, snatches it from him and upends the bag on the floor. There is a moment of shocked silence before we all burst out laughing, even your mom, although now she is blushing even more than your dad. The stethoscope is obviously part of a themed set. I hope we're back in our own state when your parents decide to play 'doctor'. I'm mortified that my name is on the gift tag. I know my bottom jaw is hanging open when I turn to you accusingly.

"Edward. Are you insane?"

"Don't worry, Bella. It's payback. I deserve it," your dad says, intervening before you have a chance to explain yourself.

"Mom and Dad gave me a 'how to' manual last year. I'll let your imagination supply the details. The implication was that I was doing something 'wrong' and that's why our relationship was stalled."

"That's insane, you don't do _anything_ wrong!" I choke when I realize I said that out loud. Now I'm the one blushing.

"Okay, okay. Next! Emmett, you're up, babe."

I'm so grateful to Rosalie right now.

Emmett kisses his wife on the cheek and starts opening his gifts. We had to order his present online. There's no way we could walk through downtown Seattle loaded down with Cubs merchandise. He's grinning so big that his dimples show as he pulls out pennants, decals, a hat, jersey, mitt and travel mug.

"This is awesome. Thanks, man. And thanks, Bella. I can't wait for Spring Training. This season is going to be epic!"

I think it's hilarious that you didn't know what to get for your sister. You've known her your entire life! It took me three seconds to settle on the perfect gift when you told me about her passion for cars. You nudge me and mouth a silent "thank you" when she opens her present from us. At first she is confused by the weight. When she peels off the paper and sees the titanium socket wrench set, she looks like somebody just handed her a million dollars. She reminds me of Tia as she opens the case, picking up and caressing each shiny piece.

"Bella, thank you so much! This is amazing."

"Edward got them, I was just his partner in crime."

"No. Edward has never bought me a decent present in his life. He's clueless. I know this was your idea. Thank you! Now I almost feel guilty for your present."

"Why? What's wrong with my present?"

"Rosalie, what did you do?"

"Nothing really bad. Chill out, Edward, and stop coddling her. She's a grown woman."

"I think I know that. I just wish you would learn boundaries. I know what they say about old dogs, but you're only 45. It's not too late."

"Oh, stop whining and let her open her presents."

Rosalie seems completely unfazed even though you just called her a bitch. You sound really pissed off. Is it a sibling thing? You two are hot and cold and then back again. Nobody else looks worried so I eventually shrug and begin unwrapping my gifts.

The package from your parents is puffy and light. I open it to find the softest cashmere hat and scarf with matching white leather gloves. The wool slips like silk between my fingers and I can't resist trying them all on even though I am plenty warm.

"We were hoping that you would visit again soon. Now at least you are prepared for the cold," your mother says.

"They're wonderful. Thank you both so much," I breathe, still caressing the supple leather gloves.

Emmett's gift makes me laugh. The virtual fish in its light up aquarium is my kind of pet.

"What should I call it?" I ask.

"Tori already named him for you. That's Nemo."

"Nemo it is." I'm chuckling as I move on to my next gift, but when I tear open the wrapping paper my face falls. I hold up the beige contraption and turn it back and forth, confused. It's heavy and stretchy and has a big Velcro panel. "Um, I'm sorry, but I'm clueless. What exactly is this?"

I turn my eyes to Rosalie but she has her face buried in the couch cushions and she is giggling hysterically. I look around the room to see your dad studiously polishing his glasses and your mom's face caught in an odd collision of emotions including annoyance, pity and amusement.

And then I see your face, white with anger.

"It's a girdle," you bite out, glaring at your sister. "Seriously, Rose? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Well, I'm never going to use it."

"It's not even new?"

"That would make it better, little brother?"

"I'm sorry. What is it? What's the big deal?" I ask.

"Oh, honey. Rosalie is trying to be funny. It's a pregnancy girdle to support your belly and lower back." Amusement has won and is now the reigning emotion on your mother's face. Your dad still hasn't raised his eyes, but you definitely got that lopsided smirk from him.

"But I'm not pregnant," I say, completely confused. And maybe a tad embarrassed. But mostly confused.

"Yet!" Rosalie chortles and collapsing into another giggling fit. Her husband just shrugs in a 'don't look at me, I just married the woman' kind of way.

"Umm. Okay. . ." Maybe it's best if we all just move on.

Your gifts are a bit anticlimactic. That's probably not a bad thing.

When the last scrap of paper is stuffed into the black bag and the spoils of war have been carted off to everyone's rooms, I find my way back to the kitchen. Rosalie is still giggling and hiccupping a bit and I can't help smiling in response. I can see why she thought it was so funny. And it's not like we haven't talked about it. But I really would prefer not to buy my wedding dress in the maternity section.

"I'm sorry Bella. It just seemed so perfect. I couldn't pass it up. We got you a real gift, too." She hands me another package and I unwrap it. I can't help the tears that well up. "We thought it was appropriate."

"It's perfect. I love this movie." I find an envelope tucked behind the DVD of You've Got Mail and open it to find a thick stack of movie theater vouchers.

"And those are so you can take him out every so often. He works too much. He needs to get out and have fun."

"I will. Oh, thanks so much, Rosalie. I'm so glad I finally got to meet you. And your kids. You guys are incredible. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Bella."

It feels right to hug her. She is tough and intimidating, but she's also a fiercely protective and caring woman. I hope I am half the mom she is when it's our turn.

I look up and see you watching from the doorway, a relieved smile on your face.

Yes, I love your family.

Almost as much as I love you.

* * *

_A/N: I have plans to post a future take after the New Year, but this is the last chapter from Bella's POV. _

_If you found your way here from a rec, please let me know. I would love to thank them. This story and these characters have become very dear to me. It makes me so happy and grateful that other readers have chosen to recommend it. Thanks for reading, rec'ing and reviewing. Merry Christmas!_

REC:

**Grad Night**

By: RobzBeanie

One last high school event changes Bella's life in ways she never imagined.

Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Angst - Bella, Edward - Chapters: 33 - Words: 93,769 - Reviews: 3,667 - Favs: 781 - Follows: 1,378 - Updated: Dec 14 - Published: Sep 26 - id: 10718198

_The stakes are high for Bella in this drama/romance. Not many people meet their celebrity crush. Even fewer share their bed for a night. That night changes everything for Bella. _

_I love this story. Frequent updates, too!_


	13. Futuretake - Happy Birthday

_Raise your hands if you want a peak inside Edward's head. Okay. Hands down. Here you go! _

_This is the absolute final chapter. I mean it. I'm done. It breaks my heart to say bye to these two, but it's been a year since I started this story and it's time to move on to other projects. Thank you to EVERYONE who has been a part of this journey._

_Also, thanks to Fic Sisters International House of Fanfic and FluffyLiz for your very sweet review. I am so appreciative and thrilled to death that you have enjoyed this story and shared it with your readers!_

* * *

EPOV -

I feel like a complete asshole for working on your birthday. It doesn't matter that you say it's okay because you're working, too. Or that you have lunch plans with Angela. Or even that we have dinner reservations for tonight at The Metropolitan Grill. I feel guilty because we've been married less than a year and far too frequently my obligations to my clients and my company encroach on the time I would rather be spending with you.

I don't hear my alarm clock go off this morning. Instead I wake up to my favorite good morning – your mouth hot and wet around my cock. I don't last longer than it takes for my mind to slip from wet dream fantasies to fully cognizant arousal. I open my eyes to flashes of lightning, the roar of thunder in my ears, and that mind-erasing feeling of you swallowing in time to the pulsing surges of my orgasm.

You leave me to recover and start the shower. I assume it is that time of month. You usually wait around for your turn.

When I finally drag my ass out of bed to join you, you are already grabbing a towel to dry off.

"No shower sex?"

"Ha. You're cute. I'm leaving early today. I've got a bunch of calls to take care of. When the city council offered me this position last year, I really had no idea that they started planning for the holidays before the end of the summer. My calendar is completely different than everyone else's. I have Christmas carols running through my mind all day long and it's only September!"

"But do you like it?"

"I love it. And getting paid three times as much as I used to earn makes any annoyances seem pretty trivial."

"That's good, then," I say as I step past you and under the hot spray of the shower. The mirror is a bit foggy but I see how your eyes dart down to check me out. You won't admit it in so many words, but you love my ass. It's no coincidence that I spend more time on my lunges and squats than I ever did before. My ass and thighs. Who knew women were that into thigh muscles? I sure didn't.

"So, I'll see you at 5:30 or so?"

"Yeah, around there," I reply, getting a mouth full of hot water. I turn around, swipe the water from my eyes and reach for the shampoo. "The weather is supposed to be pretty warm and it's only a few blocks from your office. Do you mind walking?"

"Actually, that would be kind of nice. Sure."

I hurry through my shower and am rewarded by the sight of you still in your underwear sitting at your vanity and applying your make up. I got even more than I hoped for when you said yes. I got more than I could have ever been prepared for when you let your lease expire and moved in with me two months before the wedding. And I'm not talking about that god awful couch. I'm thinking of the good stuff. The leftovers in the fridge. Two coffee mugs on the counter in the morning. Late night make out sessions and chess games by the fire. Playing catch in the back yard with Barkley and arguing the merits of petunias over impatiens. The everything together day after day. It's everything I wanted and so much more.

I reach for a t-shirt and sweat pants but you stop me.

"I already fed Barkley. He's probably gnawing on a bone and dreaming deep doggie thoughts right now."

"Cool. What should I wear today?"

"How about clothes?"

"How can such a beautiful woman be such a smart ass?"

"How can such a rich and successful man be so indecisive about his clothes?"

"What I meant was what are you wearing today so I can dress accordingly?"

"I'm wearing a little black dress. So don't wear black or charcoal or else we'll look like we're going to a funeral."

"Got it. Nothing too funereal. How about this?" I ask holding up a dark olive suit.

You look at the suit and then at me, scanning me from head to toe and back up again. Your eyes stop at my crotch and I can't help my response. Every month it gets harder - no pun intended - to respect your request. You want to wait. I don't know exactly what we're waiting for, but in this part of our life you're the boss. But you sure as fuck don't make it easy when you look at my cock like it's some kind of gourmet dessert.

"Isabella. . ."

"Hmmm?"

"The suit."

"Sure, sure. That'll work." Your voice is kind of far off and so is the look in your eyes.

I roll my eyes and start getting dressed. If you keep this up I'm going to fold you over that dainty little padded stool and fuck your brains out. Just the thought of feeling you slick and wet and bare around me makes me dizzy. I have to get out of here before I lose control. I definitely don't want to mess up your birthday. And I don't want that next step to be overshadowed by regret or a break in our trust. We worked too hard and waited too long to throw it away over some overwrought hormonal impulse.

I get dressed quickly picking out a white shirt with rust-colored pin stripes and the gray-black tie with copper stripes that you gave me for my birthday. You say it brings out the highlights in my hair. You see colors I never knew were there. By the time I'm ready to go you're getting dressed, too, but you seem lost in thought, sifting through your jewelry case distractedly.

I head downstairs to pour our coffees and scramble some eggs for breakfast. You trail behind me a few minutes later and fidget with your fork as I put out toast, eggs, sliced apples and our coffee mugs.

I clear my throat to break the silence. You seem startled and look at me with an unidentifiable emotion swimming deep within those gorgeous brown eyes.

"So, you and Angela are getting lunch together? How is she doing?"

"Pretty good. She's at school full time now and she'll graduate in the spring. And she's been volunteering at Children's Hospital, too."

"When did she ditch Gary?"

"She stuck it out for another five months after I left. I don't know how because he was already coming unglued when he fired me. She told me she quit when she started getting complaints from the GMs about Gary's behavior. He cussed one of them out in the middle of the restaurant during the Friday dinner rush. So he walked out, half his staff followed suit and then it all just disintegrated from there. It kind of sucks. On one hand I feel vindicated because he really was an asshole. But on the other hand it's really sad. I put so much of myself into that business and I was proud of our restaurants and their popularity. It doesn't seem fair that Gary is driving his business into the ground and taking down hundreds of lives and careers in the process."

"I swear I drove by Giatorre's the other day and it was open."

"I don't think any of the restaurants have shut down or been sold. Not yet at least. But I'm sure it's just a matter of time. Sally manages a bakery across town now. She didn't want to be stuck on the ship when it finally sinks." You shrug and toy with your half-empty mug.

My efforts to pull you into conversation are moderately successful but you are still pushing your eggs around with your fork instead of inhaling them like normal. Something's off. I wonder if it's because it's your birthday and you're turning 32. Is that a significant age for women? I don't even know anymore. Or maybe your job is more stressful than you are willing to admit. It bothers me that I don't know but I've learned to be patient and wait until you're ready. You always open up to me eventually. Even so, the waiting and wondering can be frustrating.

"Do you want a ride into the office?"

"Not today. I might need my truck later."

I nod in understanding, drain the rest of my coffee and load our plates into dishwasher. I step around the counter and put my hands on your shoulders, rubbing gently with my thumbs. You close your eyes and sigh, leaning back against my chest with a small smile on your lips.

"Can I walk you out to your truck?"

"Sure. Let me grab my jacket from upstairs."

I wait until your footsteps are almost at the top before I slip an envelope into your purse. You may not be big on greeting cards but my family gives them out for everything, even the Hallmark holidays. Plus, this card is kind of perfect for you. When I saw it in the display I immediately knew it would make you smile. That's easily worth four or five bucks.

You hurry back down the stairs, slip on your shoes and we walk out the side door to get our cars. Well, my car and your beast of a truck. I wait for you to stow your purse and bag before pulling you in for just one more kiss.

"Have a happy birthday, Bella. I'll meet you at your office at 5:30. And say hi to Angela for me, okay?"

"Mmmm. I'm sorry. What was that?" You give me an artificially dreamy smile.

"Flatterer," I scold.

"Love you." It's not an apology but I'll take it.

"I love you, too. Drive safe," I say and climb into my Volvo. I still miss my Lamborghini, but we didn't have room for three cars. In the choice between Barkley's car and mine, Barkley won. It's like he's training me for the sacrifices of parenthood already.

My day starts off like any other - busy, but predictable. Unfortunately, it doesn't stay that way for long.

I think the success of the last two years has lulled me into a sense of complacency. Maybe married life has made me soft. Or perhaps I've been luckier than I deserve to be and that train just ran off the tracks.

I'm standing in the break room pouring myself a fresh mug of coffee and CNN is droning on in the background. Nobody else is in here right now. It's almost 11:00 and I'm the only one still drinking coffee. I take a sip and smile when I realize it's fresh. Ms. Lopez must have only just brewed it. It should get me through most of the afternoon.

That is my last inane thought before my stomach lurches uncomfortably.

I recognize that man on the screen. Luciano Pereira. He is used to be a top executive from Brazil's PetroBras and over the last several years has become a major player in energy development all over the world. When he gets involved in a country's energy industry, people sit up and take notice. The anchor is describing his recent meeting with officials from the US Department of Energy. Something about the timing clicks in my brain. Delegates from Eskom, South Africa's struggling utility, were in Washington D.C. this week to discuss and possibly benchmark power generation technology and design. They need all the help they can get right now. It only makes sense that they would reach out to one of the most advanced countries in the world. What doesn't make sense is Pereira's presence in the very same week. Eskom needs a massive influx of cash to resuscitate their aging infrastructure. Pereira has been leaning away from straight investing and has been focusing on building companies to produce and deliver localized, sustainable energy. He's developed a name for being a bit of a hero in many developing economies. Reliable, affordable energy is the key to attracting and keeping businesses. That's something Eskom can't deliver. At least, not yet.

I take my coffee back to my office, shut the door and start digging. At first I find nothing. I curse myself for being an alarmist and I am about to close my browser when a company name near the bottom of the article I am reading jumps out at me. I know I've seen it before, I just can't remember where or when. I follow the tiny lead down the rabbit hole and my heart starts pounding. It takes almost two hours for the shape and size of the web to materialize. When it does I sit back in my chair and close my eyes.

I am so fucked.

I take about 30 seconds to curse myself for my pride and sheer idiocy. Now it's time to figure a way out of the royal mess I've planted myself in.

One of the ways I have managed to earn such steep returns for our investment clients is through linear diversification. No, that's not a real term. I made it up. Essentially, I look for pockets of extreme need where there are systemic failings in infrastructure, technology, management, employment, skills training and capital. The 'need' is what is critical. If there is a supply problem inhibiting growth in any sector, a bit of creativity can unstop that bottleneck and get the money flowing. Well, a bit of creativity and a lot of money. For South Africa that bottleneck has been the energy sector.

Constructing every element of a supply chain from scratch is extremely expensive and time consuming. Identifying local businesses and giving them the financial and logistical support to connect the dots it faster, cheaper and easier to disengage from when the relative risk drops and other investors are ready to jump into the fray. That moment is also when the rate of return drops back into the single digits.

When I created our Energy Development Investment Fund, I poured money into connecting the links in several such localized chains in South Africa. Businesses to pave roads, import equipment, lay underground power lines, manufacture solar panels, construct solar fields, operate customer service centers, upgrade established residences and businesses, and so on. The components that contribute to a growing economy are endless. Straightening the energy supply lines so everything flows smoothly is like widening a river and then watching the water level rise to fill the banks. Only it isn't water. It's money. Not just for the residents and local businesses, but for the early investors who helped make it happen.

Investors like me and my clients.

And now that chain is about to be decapitated. If what I deduce about Pereira's modus operandi is true and remains consistent, he has recognized the same opportunity as I have: independent production and distribution of electricity in under-served South African cities. Only he stands to benefit from their planned destruction, not their continued growth.

I have identified almost a dozen operations around the globe that show the mark of his influence. In five cases, so far, something has crushed the heart of the local energy supply immediately following a economic boom. Sabotage, vandalism, strikes, equipment failure. . . it all has the same effect. The energy source is temporarily or even permanently knocked out of the chain creating a very hungry pool of consumers. In that desperate moment when the livelihoods of tens of thousands of people hung in the balance, businesses and city governments turned to him with gratitude. Somehow, in all five cases, Pereira was there with contracts ready to supply diesel fuel and generators to keep everyone online. At a premium cost.

With each 'failure' he has been commended for his efforts to champion renewable energy development despite great personal risk, and simultaneously thanked for his forethought and preparation in having a back-up plan. I wonder how nobody else has seen the pattern.

The more I read, the sicker I feel. To make matters worse, my clients are heavily invested in energy solutions and infrastructure for a dozen such cities. I wonder, will Pereira draw the line at breaking his own companies? Somehow I doubt it.

Many of my highest performing client accounts are modeled after my own portfolio. I have almost 18% of my money in EDIF. With such enormous returns and growth potential it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Or so I thought.

A loss that big could shatter client confidence. I evaluate the fund's structure first and ask myself how I can possibly stop the noose from tightening. If Pereira does somehow manage to interrupt production at a plant, how long could that city continue to operate utilizing just the power available in Eskom's grid? How vulnerable will they be? Which of those businesses would be made insoluble by a sudden interruption or massive rise in the cost of electricity?

At a glance, it doesn't look good.

What I need is an accumulator. Something capable of absorbing the shock so each community is immune to Pereira's scalping. Better yet, I need to beat him at his own game.

My phone chimes with an incoming text. Shit. It's already 3:40. I don't know where the time has gone.

_Lunch was great. Angela says 'hi' to my 'super hot husband'._

I chuckle under my breath as I type out a quick reply. _Doctor Cheney better propose quickly. It sounds like she's already drifting._

_Like that's ever going to happen. She's a goner._

_I know the feeling._ I consider adding an emoticon but you might question my mental stability. Sudden personality changes are almost always cause for alarm.

_BTW, I found the card. Um, what's with the chickens?_

_Like you have to ask. . ._

_You made me snort giggle. Go away. I have work to do._

I can't help it. I'm imagining your laughter and the mortified look on your face when you accidentally snort. God, I love the way your eyebrows jump up when you are surprised. And the way you blush. I'm laughing now, too. You really are adorable.

_Going, going. . ._

_Gone. Yeah yeah. See you at 5:30. I can't wait!_

And just like that my brief happy mood is crushed. It's around midnight in South Africa, but that doesn't mean there is nothing I can do now. I don't know how much time I have before the shit hits the fan. It could be hours, it could be months.

I need to buy myself some time. I need to neutralize the threat to my clients. Right now, my cards are stacked end over end like dominoes. One little push is all it would take to start an avalanche. There has to be something I can do to stabilize our investments. If I don't act in time, it's over for me.

When the solution comes to me, I swallow hard. I don't have enough money to buy out all our clients' shares, but if I liquidate my portfolio I can take on close to half. That's a more acceptable risk. But that would put 100% of my savings on the line. I scrub my face with my hands and groan. How could I be such an idiot? It's a really good thing that you got that job, because if this falls apart I'll lose everything and get fired. It'll be all you, babe.

I hate myself as I type out another text.

_Wrestling with a pretty big problem. $$$$ on the line. Can we move our reservation back an hour?_

_Seriously?_

Fuck. The guilt and stress are burning a hole in my stomach. Please don't hate me.

_Yeah. I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you._

_I'll call them. Don't worry about it. Just let me know when you're on your way._

I don't deserve you. But I can't type that. Instead I just put my cell phone down and pick up my office line. I need to schedule some big trades. I'm sure I'm stomping all over SEC and FINRA regulations but it's do or die right now. Many of our investments aren't publicly traded. We can't just drop millions of dollars of privates shares out there and expect it not to blow up in our faces. Instead, I put Mike and two other assistants to work chopping and reassembling the EDIF accounts, converting half of the at-risk funds to cash until we can sit down and conduct an in-depth analysis and reallocate everything appropriately.

"Are you sure about this, boss?" Mike asks as he stands beside my desk.

Wordlessly I direct his attention to my computer monitors and flip slowly through the key articles, reports, and business filings I found earlier. Mike is sharp. His instincts are totally tuned in. He sees it, too.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah."

"And you're just going to take it all on yourself?"

"It's not like I have a choice."

"Damn. I guess not. If I had any money to speak of I would jump in there with you. What he's doing is evil."

"I know. It's not capitalism. It's cannibalism. Let's keep going. It's Bella's birthday and I'm already running late."

Mike gathers a stack of paperwork off the corner of my desk and turns to go. At the doorway he pauses.

"You know, Jessica's uncle is pretty high up with Honda. They make diesel generators. Maybe they would want to get in on this. You know, set up a huge shipment, bulk discounts, payment plans. Maybe we could even find government assistance or private lenders who would issue small business loans so those companies can have a bit of security."

"That's brilliant, Mike. Get me his number. And I'm pretty certain Marcus is still in contact with that sheikh he used to golf with. We can lay the groundwork for a logistics plan to keep those regions supplied with fuel through him. If this asshole is really setting up to do what I think he is, we need to cut his legs right out from under him."

"This is scary shit. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have less stress, but I can't really imagine working anywhere else. We actually make things happen here, you know? Thanks again for bringing me on board."

"Well, Mike. The truth is, I can't possibly hire everyone who catches my attention, but you earned it. And I haven't ever had cause to regret it." I watch his retreating figure and pick up my phone with a heavy feeling in my stomach. It's after 6. There is no way I can leave yet. Not with everything in flux like this.

You pick up on the third ring. "How is everything going?"

"Well," I sigh, "We have a plan. Sort of. If it backfires we're living off your income until I can find someone generous enough or crooked enough to hire me."

"What is going on?"

You sound really concerned and I kick myself for laying in out there so blatantly.

"In a nutshell, I got complacent. I had a really good thing going and it's been paying out really well. Still is, in fact. But it's kind of like the Death Star. I discovered a flaw that could bring the whole thing down and there's a trigger happy asshole out there who probably can't wait for the perfect opportunity to blow it to smithereens. I think we caught on in time. Mike's helping me lay out a safety net to hold it all together. In the mean time, I'm the safety net."

"Could you say that in layman's terms?"

"I just did." I thought Star Wars analogies made everything clearer.

"Huh."

I breathe carefully through the silence searching for the right words. Another apology isn't going to fix it. I decide to just bite the bullet. What other choice do I have?

"So, it's going to take me at least another couple hours to review the plan and make sure everything is filed correctly so it kicks in when the market opens in the morning."

When you don't reply I get nervous.

"Look, Bella, I'm sorry. I'm definitely not going to make a habit of this. It's just, today, well the timing sucks. I'm sorry about your birthday dinner. I'll take you out to dinner every night for the rest of the month." Do I sound as pathetic as I feel?

"Edward. Chill out. It's fine. It's not like I don't understand. You have to answer for a lot of money. It's a huge responsibility. Birthdays aren't even that big of a deal to me. I'll order some food and have it sent up to you since I know you haven't eaten yet."

I roll my eyes and smirk. You ladies do know that men survive just fine without you babying us, right? Not that we don't love it, but seriously. I can skip a meal and not pass out.

Out loud I say, "Don't worry about me. Ms. Lopez has taken to stocking the fridge with all sorts of healthy snacks since she overheard you nagging me."

"What? I don't nag!"

"Um, yeah. You do. But only in a good way."

"Edward Cullen, you are too old to be this obnoxious. Now finish shuffling papers and numbers and decimal places and come home."

"Yes, ma'am," I laugh before hanging up.

My dad told me this would happen. He gave me all sorts of advice before we got married, some helpful, some questionable. He also warned me never to trust when a woman claims she isn't hurt or angry. Always assume she is and she's just being generous to spare your feelings. Then apologize, make it right and don't be stupid enough to fuck up the same thing again. I'm hedging my bets. I order flowers to be delivered to your office tomorrow morning, schedule a complete detail, wash and wax for your decrepit truck and make an appointment with my favorite jeweler to choose a necklace to match the pearl earrings I gave you for Valentine's Day.

With the biggest priority taken care of, I grab a snack from the fridge, dismiss my exhausted, bleary-eyed team and sit down to review everything we've done and everything I need to tackle in the morning.

When I know I've done everything I have the power to do alone, I call Marcus. He listens patiently while I come clean about my fuck up and beg him to call in every favor he can to ensure we keep Pereira out of our way.

"Honestly, Edward, I'm impressed you even saw this coming. If you ever wonder why we were so quick to hire and promote you, it's because you don't just sit back and watch the numbers. You keep your eyes and ears open. Send me those links so I can really get up to speed, but I think, from what I've heard so far, that we're going to come through this. What's more, I don't want you shouldering all the liability. First of all, you've got a responsibility to your wife. Don't be reckless. Secondly, when Pereira's activities come to light - and I plan to make sure that they do - you stand to gain far more than you ever could have lost and I want to be in on that victory."

I loosen my tie and kick my feet up on my desk with a sigh. "Marcus, I don't even know what to say. Thanks, I guess. For your support, but even more for your confidence. I'll send you those links right away. Then, I think I need to step back, get some sleep and see how this all looks in the morning."

"Now you're sounding like the man I know. Get some rest, son. And give my love to that delightful girl of yours for me."

"Absolutely. Good night, Marcus. I'll call you tomorrow." I'm so relieved. If Marcus is this confident I know we're going to come through just fine. He's a fucking wizard about this stuff and, honestly, the best mentor in the world.

It's pushing 10 o'clock and my eyes are practically bleeding with exhaustion. I have checked and rechecked everything. There's nothing more I can do until the morning. I am about to shut down my computer when my phone chimes.

_Almost done?_

_Shutting down and leaving in 5._

_Check your email._

I click the send/receive icon but I have no new messages in my in-box. I pull up my personal email account and see a new message from you. It's empty except for a link. If you hadn't sent me a text I would have deleted it assuming it was a spam email.

I open the link and sit watching, completely puzzled. In the center of the screen an enormous rocket is flanked by towers and scaffolding. My speakers are turned down almost all the way so I can barely hear what is being said. I increase the volume just as an announcer starts counting down from ten.

You're trying to tell me something. I'm so fucking clueless right now. What does a NASA missile launch have to- Oh. _Ohhhhh._

I can't believe I even remember this. We hadn't even met yet. I was sitting right here in this chair and we were talking on the phone. You said your biological clock hadn't started ticking yet. Then you told me, "_I'll let you know if NASA launch controllers start invading my subconscious._"

You're ready.

Holy shit.

Am I?

I push back from my desk and run my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots. What did I even say when you told me that? I'm pretty sure I told you I was going to fuck you on my desk.

Oh God.

_Ding._

Through my open office door I hear the elevator doors open and shut. Most of the lights are off but I see you approaching. I swallow hard.

I drop my feet to the floor as you step into my office and shut the door behind you. The lock clicks. Suddenly my chest is tight and my face is on fire. You are so hot. With your hair loose around your shoulders and you face completely free of makeup, you look so young and sweet and I just want to drag you into my lap and kiss you.

I watch silently as you unbutton your coat. I recognize it as the gray short trench coat my mom gave you for Christmas last year. All thoughts of my mom run screaming from my head when you open your coat and reveal what you are wearing underneath.

Absolutely nothing.

I roll back a few inches. My hand automatically goes to my throat, pulling my tie off and releasing the top two buttons of my shirt. It doesn't help. I still can't breathe.

Your coat slips from your shoulders and you walk slowly toward me wearing nothing but a pair of heels and a shy smile.

"Did you get my email?"

I nod once. My palms are sweating. I rub them on my thighs and feel the fabric of my slacks tugging against my hard-on. I may be freaking out and unsure if I'm ready for this, but my cock and balls know their job. They're ready to get to work.

"You asked me what I wanted for my birthday. Do you remember what I said?"

"You said you weren't sure yet," I reply. My voice cracks like a teenage boy.

"Well, I've decided."

You're standing between me and my desk now. I don't even quite know how you got here. You're looking down at me and your smile is pure radiance. You have no idea what you do to me. You smile and it's like the sun is shining right into my soul. Like nothing can touch me. Nothing is impossible. Life is just. . . perfect.

I'm paralyzed. You take my hands in yours and step between my knees. Your touch is like a bolt of electricity cutting through me. Your hands are cool in mine and I realize I am burning for you. Aching for you. Desperate to be inside you. Right. Now.

"Edward, I want a baby."

"Fuck. . ."

"Um, yeah. Something like that," you giggle.

I shoot to my feet, and you squeal as I engulf you with kisses. I've wanted this for so long that I don't even know where to start. Fortunately, you are a bit more level headed than I am. Your fingers are moving so fast as you undress me. You're laughing and breathing hard and I am, too. Just the thought of you pregnant, your body changing as our baby grows inside of you, having a reason, a purpose for everything we've built together. . . it's too much. I'm going to explode before I'm even inside you.

"Edward, Edward. Wait. Slow down."

You're outright laughing now as I blindly shove things aside to make room for you to sit and lay back on my desk without hurting yourself.

"Babe, I'm done waiting." And I am.

With a single thrust, I'm catapulted into absolute heaven.

Your legs are wrapped around my hips, you head is back and your tits are pointing straight at the ceiling. You're so hot. And wet. And the sensations are so much more intense than anything I've ever felt before. It's all coming together in this moment. All the wanting, all the waiting, all the laughing and talking and planning and _love_.

Because I've never done this before. Never felt this much before.

Bare skin. Heat. Wet. Slick. Sweet. Clenched.

Close.

Harder. Faster. Moaning. There. There. _There._

Now. . . _Oh, God_. I'm yours.

Forever.

I'm yours.

**THE END**

* * *

Thanks for reading. I love you guys!

_Rec: Springeresque by Lyrical Kris_

_COMPLETE This is an Alice/Charlie fic. Don't freak out. I mean, yes, that seems all sorts of wrong at first, but when you read it you realize that Kris has taken all of the best and most beautiful parts of these characters and pulled them together in a way that heals and beautifies their lives. Both have loved and lost. Both are lonely and hurting. In this incredibly moving and uplifting story, they find happiness together._

_On a side note, everything by Lyrical Kris is fabulous. So, yeah. Go read some stuff. LOL_


	14. Happily

**Since TWIFIC FANDOM AWARD nominations are anonymous, I have NO CLUE who nominated Resurfacing for All-Time Favorite Fic, Boomerang Fic, Snuggle Fic and Undiscovered Gem Fic categories. So, here is my thank you.**

I return from the grocery store to the sound of squeals, growls and other assorted animal noises coming from the living room. My boys. The three of you are wrestling on the floor. Or rather, you are tickling Logan while Barkley does his level best to get a lick in every time you drop your guard.

Logan's giggles and squeals make me smile. His personality has really blossomed these last few weeks. I can't believe he's only ten months old. He's huge! With your crazy hair and my brown eyes, he's owned my heart since the moment they laid him in my arms.

You hear me come in and sit up, face flushed and grinning, cradling our boy in your arms. He's batting at your face, begging for more. Barkley is practicing yoga moves, stretching out his back in anticipation of round two.

"Lasagna okay?" I ask, setting the oven to preheat while I unwrap the frozen entree and shove the rest of the groceries into the fridge wherever they will fit. With a baby, a dog and both of us working full time, niceties like made-from-scratch meals take a back seat to convenience.

"Food is food. You want to join the fray? Two against two to make it fair?"

I decline with a secret smile.

"Fine then. Okay boys, may the best man win!" And you fly Logan through the air to land on Barkley's back. He growls and rolls over, his ears narrowly avoiding being ensnared by Logan's grasping hands.

I toss the foil tray in the oven, set the timer and give a sharp whistle. Barkley perks up immediately. This is our time. After work, before dinner, just the two of us. . . well, sort of. He sits back on his haunches by the door while I dig out a couple of doggy treats and slip my feet into my water- and poop-proof boots.

"Come on, boy. Last one to the fence is a rotten egg!"

He charges out the door ahead of me, zips across the yard to the back fence, then rears up on his hind paws to turn and race back. I meet him halfway, feeling the twinge in my hips that never went away after Logan was born. Now it probably never will.

"Hey, buddy. You are such a good boy. Thanks for taking care of the little man," I say, feeding Barkley his favorite beef sticks in little chunks.

When the treats are gone, he leans roughly into my knee, his tail wagging furiously.

"Nope. All gone. And no begging Daddy to sneak you extra treats after I go to bed."

His answering grunt rumbles deep in his chest and I laugh.

"Things are gonna get kind of crowded around here. I hope you don't mind. I know you didn't really trust Logan when he was just a squirmy, stinky baby, but look how much fun you have now!" I say, trying to reassure myself as much as him. "Just remember, there's no need to be jealous. No matter how busy I get, I loved you first."

I grab his silky black head and lean my forehead against his. His big brown eyes stare back, and I tell myself that he understands. And he's okay with it.

"You loved him first, huh?" you ask, standing on the back porch with your hands in your pockets. Through the window I see Logan sitting in his playpen, playing with a light-up toy.

"Out of all my kids. I loved him first," I repeat, waiting for you to catch on.

"What's that supposed to mean? All your. . ." Your eyes dip down to my belly, up to my boobs, then back down again.

No, I'm not showing. Yet. But in another eight months. . . we're gonna need a bigger car.

"Nice. . ." you say with that cocky smile I adore. "And I wasn't even trying this time. Damn, I'm good."

Uh. Yeah. You are.


End file.
